A Better Tomorrow
by Cheah
Summary: A gangster wants to leave the Mob in Vice City for his brother. Based on John Woo's 'A Better Tomorrow'. T for violence and swearing. Updated, revised, and completed.
1. Prologue

A Better Tomorrow

'You must choose a road for yourself.'

Kazuo Koike

Prologue: Another Deal 

1987

The dream came again, having haunted him for the past fifteen years.

A running man sprinted down a street, pistol in hand and pointed high in the air. Only his back could be seen. A pistol rose up, and its sights aligned themselves with his chest. The shooter squeezed the trigger slowly.

The gun barked, its muzzle flash illuminating the cool night air. The bullet flew straight and true, blowing into the runner's chest, breaking through his ribs and entering his right lung. The running man screamed, and the shooter fired again. This bullet entered the upper part of his head, opening it and spraying out its contents for a foot or so. The runner collapsed, bleeding from his fatal wound, the final death of a day marked with so many, and the first of a boy/man who would later take more lives.

Andy's eyes opened, seeing the white ceiling above him, heart hammering a staccato in his ears. Cold sweat emerged from his body, staining his clothes and the bed sheet.

Damn it. It's time to leave.

The sun was benign today, despite the lack of clouds in the sky. The sun's rays were just so, and the humidity level, usually very high, was actually pretty low. Which was why Nick was wearing his 'business' attire.

He was dressed in a long, black duster overcoat, covering a white shirt and dark trousers. A pair of UV-reflective Ray-Ban sunglasses covered his eyes. His long, left parted hair framed his thirty-year-old oval face just so. A smile of yellow, faded teeth was etched into his face, a lighted cigarette hanging from his mouth, explaining his poor teeth.

He was also doing something very stupid. He was standing in the middle of a road in VC, in this case 3rd and 8th Street, outside the police headquarters downtown. What was even stupider was the fact that the police had not seen him, obvious as he was.

He turned, and walked towards the pavement, as though realizing how foolish he must look standing in the middle of the frickin' street outside a frickin' police station.

Nick sauntered down the pavement, passing by all manner of vehicles. Their drivers were nowhere in sight. The only other person save he was a boy selling newspapers by the road. Well, what the hell, he figured. It was only fifty cents.

Walking over to the boy, he extracted a half-dollar from his wallet.

"I'll take one, kid," Nick said, tossing the coin over.

The boy caught it expertly, and passed him a copy of the Vice City Times, a publication that was, unlike the rest of the other tabloids, only mildly influenced by the Outfit.

"Thank ya, mister," the boy replied.

Nick smiled and turned away.

The boy ran off at the sound of a rapidly approaching car.

"Hey!" Nick called, running after him. He stopped after maybe ten or so feet, and laughed to himself. The things he did for fun.

A cherry-red Washington drove up next to Nick, beeping its horn as it stopped. He turned right, looking into the passenger area.

"Nick! Where were ya? We got another deal with the Cubans, remember?"

"You think I'd forget it, Andy?"

Andy chuckled a little.

"Hop in."

Nick opened the door, and sat next to Andy, closing the door as he entered. The chauffeur drove on, trained to ignore what his boss was saying until directed.

Andy was another thirty-year-old Caucasian, but his tanned, nearly olive skin made some people believe that he was Hispanic, something he used to his benefit when working with the Cuban community. He was dressed in his black business suit and trousers, and he even remembered to wear his tie, something that his partner constantly razzed him for if he didn't on days with important deals. Both of them were Made Men of the Mob; largely because they accomplished what nobody else thought was possible. Another pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses hid his iron-gray eyes.

Andy saw the newspapers in Nick's hands.

"What's the headlines?"

Nick set it on his lap.

"Let's see…the usual. Congressman Shrub thinks he can run for Senate."

"Him? That transsexual? Hah!"

"Not my problem."

The trip continued with the two of them discussing the sports, weather, and Andy telling the driver to change the radio station to Vice City Public Radio, which Nick hated. The latter preferred rock music, which Andy abhorred.

Their first stop was the Print Works. Three years ago, Vercetti bought it to print fake money with which to deceive his boss. Unfortunately, an African American named Lance Vance betrayed him to Sonny Forelli, eventually leading to Vance's and Forelli's demise, along with maybe three dozen or so others.

Shortly after that, Vercetti rebuilt the Print Works, and replaced the printing presses and plates within the facility. There was also an employees-only parking garage under the facility, accessible from a tunnel behind the building. The Print Works was now pumping out high-quality fakes, better than the ones Vercetti had tried to cheat Forelli with. It's been less than eight months since Tommy Vercetti took over, but he had somehow managed to find the cash to do all that. Tommy also upgraded security at the place.

The car entered the brightly lit garage, and the driver quickly found his reserved parking lot. Both Made Men exited the car, and the driver stood guard over it.

Andy and Nick made their way to the back of the garage. A lift there took them to the interior of the Print Works, where the real counterfeiting took place.

Leaving the lift, they found themselves in a long white corridor. A door at its end led to the main facility. A camera mounted above the door on its left allowed the guards within to determine any visitors' identity. A keypad next to the door was the other security element the place had. A man stood in front of the door, dressed in a business suit. He smiled upon recognizing the Made Men, and they returned it.

Both men made their way to the guard.

"Another deal today, right?" the guard said.

"Maybe," Nick replied.

"Follow me."

Turning to the keypad, the guard typed in four numbers, and looked up at the camera. The other two did that for the security department beyond. After a second, the doors opened with a metallic clang.

The men walked in, and found themselves in another corridor. This time, there were two doors: one at the end, and one on the right. The former led to the printing presses while the latter led to the security team.

The men walked on to the end. Opening the door, the gangster let the Made Men into the next room.

It was a control room. All of the room's walls were lined with computers, save for a small section reserved for a door. Some sort of data roll, like half of an oversized cassette, sat in a bullet-resistant glass cabinet next to the door. There were two of them, actually, each the other's twin. There were two men in the room.

"Nick, Andy," the closer of the two said.

"Hey Oliver," Nick replied. Andy merely nodded.

"Wait one."

Oliver walked off, grabbed a data roll, and fed it into a nearby machine, which was supposed to be a data reader of some sort. He activated the machine, and a computer screen next to it came alive with all sorts of numbers and letters.

At another side, some computers were working in tandem with the first. A hundred-dollar bill was fed into a scanner mounted on the desk. Its image came up on a large screen in front of the Made Men. Both Oliver and the other printer walked over to the computer. After pushing a few buttons, the image was magnified, and the serial numbers came up clearly.

Working skillfully, the forgers changed the serial number on the image, and set the computer to randomize the order of the numbers and letters. After they were done, both Made Men inspected their work. Nick nodded and flashed another one of his famous smile. Andy just nodded.

Oliver pressed a button, and the printing presses came to life. Loud clanking noises and the smell of printer's ink filtered through the door. The four men entered the next room, which housed the printing presses.

Money-quality sheets of paper—actually, a mixture of cotton and linen that really could pass off as real money—leapt off conveyor belts at the beginning, and were sprayed with green ink. When that was done, they were cut into multiple notes, each the size of a paper note. Tone was added, and black ink sprayed where necessary. Facial features and fine detail was added at the end. Nick picked up one note, and lit it. It burned beautifully. Nobody objected; it could, would, and already had been replaced very easily and cheaply. Andy walked over to the end, grabbing an attaché case that was crucial for this deal.

The completed notes rushed out at the end, and stacked themselves up. Each gangster grabbed a bundle of notes, and stacked them inside the case, and the surplus was split four ways and shared. After all, Tommy Vercetti didn't know or care, and banks had no idea how to differentiate their fakes from real money. Or people on the street, for that matter. When they were done, both Made Men thanked the forgers and returned to the garage.

Upon entering the garage, their driver met them at the door, and escorted them to the Sentinel. He coughed as Andy entered the vehicle.

"You all right man?" Nick asked.

The driver nodded.

Nick extracted a bundle of (fake) hundred-dollar bills, and gave it to the driver.

"See a doctor when we're done, will ya?"

"Sure. Thanks."

Nick took the seat next to Andy, and the driver took over.

The car exited the garage at a leisurely pace, cruising down the worn-out streets. Years of gang warfare had scared away anyone who wished to repair the roads, and killed those brave and/or foolish enough to do so. The Haitian gangsters on the road offered the three men a passing glance before losing interest and memory; their quarrel was with Tommy Vercetti and the Cubans, not three Caucasian strangers.

"If only those poor sons of bitches knew what we have, eh?" Nick said.

"Yeah…if only they knew."

There were more than enough Haitians to overwhelm the vehicle, kill the occupants, and take off with the loot. Both men had pistols, but neither held the illusion that the Haitians had no guns of their own.

The chauffeur drove on and on, leaving the ghettos of Little Haiti and entering the _barrios_ of Little Havana.

The Cubans and Haitians were supposed to be honoring a ceasefire after their war a year or so back, ostensibly to relieve the heat on them by the police. However, the VCPD, corrupted from within and attacked from without, really couldn't do a thing to end the warfare.

Both sides were taking the opportunity to rearm, lick their wounds, recruit new people, and solidify their control over the lucrative drug trade. The Cubans obtained their cocaine from processing plants in Columbia and Cuba, and the Haitians' supply came from the smaller Pacific islands, along with locally produced and processed voodoo, before Vercetti blew their factory up. The Cartels might take offense if the Haitians were to take over from the Cubans as their distributors, and the gangs in the islands would be displeased if the Cubans overthrew the Haitians, hence the length of the war and the fruitlessness of it. Not that the foreigners saw it, of course. Profits, plus race of their distributors, were the only things they cared about.

Of course, that does not mean that accidents could not occur. People were always running other people over in Vice City.

The driver drove down the dusty roads of Little Havana. The Cubans weren't stupid enough to prevent city maintenance vehicles do their jobs properly, and they actually ensured that their fellow gang members were relatively well off. The apartment blocks of this section of the city were more modern than their counterparts in Little Haiti, which really wasn't saying much.

A Washington was far more easily noticed in this part of the city than the others, with the exception of Little Haiti. Cubans simply didn't prefer vehicles like that. The car stopped by the pavement outside a café.

Both partners left the vehicle, leaving the driver to guard the car by himself.

The men entered the café, named Café Fernandez. It was an old, lovingly maintained house of business, unlike many other businesses in the area. It had to be run by a mom-and-pop business family; in VC, only these people had the time and dedication/stubbornness to repeatedly fill in bullet holes. The walls were covered with brown-striped wallpaper, which, unlike so many of its counterparts in the city, were actually completely stuck to the walls.

The tables and chairs were solidly built of lacquered wood, arranged neatly along the right side of the building. The left was a dedicated counter, behind which was the kitchen. Mr. Fernandez was behind the counter, letting his wife perform her duties in the kitchen. Several electric lights and fans shared the ceiling, doing their jobs with admirable efficiency. At least they were all working. The café itself smelt of rich, home-cooked Spanish food, cooking oil, grease, and spices.

The Cuban gangsters they were supposed to be meeting were seated at the far end of the café at two tables. Andy knew the setup: the table closest to the door had the security detail, the gangsters who held the big guns to protect their boss while the other table, to the detail's right and closest to the corner, would be where business would be conducted.

The detail's table had four men; each dressed in typical loud Spanish attire, and had bulges in their pants. Nick's experience said that the two sports bags on the floor under the table held either a Remington pump-action shotgun or an Uzi each, or maybe both. The boss was also dressed pretty much the same as his subordinates, except that he was wearing sunglasses to proclaim his seniority. From his past experience, Andy figured that the man would be the actual boss, not a negotiator. After all, he had to show that he had _cojones_.

Nick became the friendly, casual partner while Andy put on his 'businessman' face: an earnest expression that proclaimed to all and sundry that he was ready to make a fair deal with anyone.

Sauntering over to the table, Nick grinned widely and waved while his partner walked over to do business. It can't hurt to make friends. He removed his sunglasses. People whose eyes can't be seen clearly are more intimidating, something that he didn't want.

This was the final phase of a week of negotiations with this new gang; they couldn't afford to screw it all up now. Tommy would have done it himself, but he was currently in New York setting up a distribution network, so he left his most trusted lieutenants in charge.

"Hello!" a heavyset bodyguard greeted.

"Hi!" he answered.

He removed a cigarette from his duster's pocket, and placed it in his mouth. He reached for his lighter when he saw that the Cubans were offering to light his smoke for him. He accepted it with a smile. After all, never, ever, ever, refuse an offer like this.

The Cubans started jabbering in Spanish. Nick merely smiled and nodded, occasionally removing his cigarette to laugh with the bodyguards, as though he really understand Spanish. After a while, they turned to him and said something. Nick made out the words 'you', 'speak' and 'Spanish', and decided to take a chance.

"Of course!" he replied, in Spanish, smiling as he did so. His heart skipped a beat as the bodyguards froze for a second. Then, they cracked wide grins and laughed. Nick almost sighed in relief. They collectively decided that he wasn't a threat.

Meanwhile, Andy was speaking to the boss.

"You have the merchandise?"

"Yes. Two and a half keys of coke in this bag." He gestured to the attaché case under the table, identical to the one Andy held in his hands.

"Can I see it?"

"Go ahead."

He picked the bag up and placed it on the table, allowing Andy to inspect them.

It was filled with packets of white…powder. There was no way to really know if they were for real, unless he tasted the cocaine, which was singularly the most stupid thing to do. It was so very easy to become addicted to it. It only took a taste.

"Okay. Here's the ten grand we negotiated."

Passing the bag back, Andy picked his case up, and handed it over to the Cuban.

He opened it, and inspected the notes. After a minute, he closed it, revealing a wide grin.

"Good. The money's all here."

"A pleasure doing business with you." Andy stood up at the same time the Cuban did, and both men swapped their attaché cases. After shaking hands, Andy turned around, drugs in hand.

"Nick, let's go."

Nick waved goodbye, and escorted his partner out of the café. The Cubans returned the gesture.

"Went down as smooth as a baby's ass, eh?" Nick remarked. He didn't like making too many enemies; rivalry that escalates into shooting wars tends to be bad for business all around.

"Sure. By the way, I've noticed your Spanish has improved. Now, you know how to say 'Of course'," Andy replied, placing the suitcase of drugs in the trunk of the car.

"Of course!" he replied, in Spanish.

Both men laughed as they entered the car. Each man had separate appointments in two locations of the city to attend to before they could call it a day.

Author's Note: Well…I'd changed some dialogue and added a crucial scene to make the whole story in line with the original John Woo movie. That scene will make sense near the end, trust me.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Father, The Brother, And His Fiancé 

Nick and Andy arrived at Hyman Condos. It was a ten-storey condominium that came with all the trappings of the rich, and exclusively for the members of Tommy Vercetti's gang, and then only if they had earned the right to live there. Two guards at either end of the alley leading to the building kept trespassers, by-passers, and police officers out.

The two men were again dressed in their business attire. They arrived at the 3 o'clock side of the condominium on foot. The sun glared down, soon making the day uncomfortably hot. The people outside were wearing mostly thin cotton tops and short pants/skirts, and both Made Men stood out like wolves in a flock of sheep.

The guards stood silently, scanning the crowds behind their dark sunglasses. Their suits were tailored a size too large, the better to hide weapons. Even so, Nick saw a bulge under each of their jackets.

Approaching them, both men removed their sunglasses. The guards nodded, and stepped aside, letting them pass. The Made Men entered the building.

The lobby appeared to have been taken from a luxury hotel. The high ceiling was painted white with gold corners. Oak-paned walls surrounded the area. The pillars were gold-plated. Andy and Nick kept on walking forward, the marble floor reflecting their movements. The guards in the lobby lounged in the sofas near the front door, with some nodding at their passage.

Both men ascended the stairs in the lobby, and arrived at the mezzanine. There were two elevators in front of them, both manned by trusted operators in white suits. Four guards scanned them quickly before letting them enter the elevator on the right.

Upon entering, Andy turned to the operator.

"Top floor, please."

"Very well."

The operator pressed the button for the top floor. The only reason why an operator was needed was so that any intruders could be shot dead inside the car. Nick knew of the Colt Python this particular operator had under his jacket. But, he couldn't care less about that.

After a short wait, the elevator doors opened. Both men stepped out, and walked forward. They were in a long, straight corridor, which terminated in an office. A secretary sat at her desk outside the office, typing something.

Arriving at the office, Andy entered, while Nick waited outside. He reached for a rose inside the trench coat.

"Hi," he whispered to the secretary, leaning forward.

She typed a sentence.

He smiled, and chuckled a little.

She changed the paper.

"Love you," he mouthed, placing the rose in front of her before going after Andy.

She had no idea he was there.

Meanwhile, Andy was inside his boss's office. An oak table took center stage. Two leather seats were in front of the desk. The boss sat on a plush leather seat, which also came with wheels. Several pieces of paper were on his table, along with a table lamp. A bookshelf, filled with books of all sorts, was on the door's left.

The acting boss, a trusted lieutenant of Vercetti's whom everyone called Pete, was in his late forties. Wrinkles creased his face. His black spectacles further magnified his large brown eyes. His receding hairline proved his age. His black hair was already turning gray.

"Take a seat, Andy."

He did so, wondering what this pre/post-deal meeting would be all about.

"How did the deal go?"

"It went down just fine. The Cubans took the cash and we took their crack for less than a fifth of what it's worth."

"Nice job. They still want to work with us again, according to my other guy on the ground… I hear you want to leave?"

"…Yes," Andy replied, wondering what his boss's reaction would be.

"Well…that's expected. Hell, you and your family's served our interests for long enough. Even Tommy Vercetti thinks that way. How's your father?"

"He's alive. I'll doubt his identity if that bout of pneumonia killed him."

The boss chuckled.

"You've one last job to do in Tallahassee, right? After that, I'll let you go. Tommy's approved of that. Mike has the details on it. He'll be in the Malibu nightclub at eight to meet you."

Andy nodded.

"Okay, go."

Nick entered.

"Nick!" his boss greeted.

"Hey Pete."

"You fine?"

"Yeah."

"Great job earlier on. Like I said earlier, Mike has the details on your next -and last- deal. He's handling some business downtown, so he can't tell you here. Is there anything else?"

Neither man said a word. Andy had already told Nick about his plans. The latter had agreed somewhat half-heartedly.

"Okay. You can leave."

Both men left the office, and started down the corridor.

"Nick," Andy said.

"Yeah?"

"Take care of this for me."

The businessman extracted his Beretta M92FS and two magazines from his coat's pockets. The gunman accepted them with a frown.

"You still carry Berettas?"

"Yeah. Kinda like the double-action trigger on them."

"Heh. Give me an American gun any day."

"Sure. But you can fire them without cocking the gun."

"Yeah, but the M1911 is still the best handgun in the world."

"In your opinion."

The men took the elevator down, and left the condominium. Outside, both men separated from each other, each with his personal appointment to tend to. Andy caught a cab some fifty meters down the road to the right side of Hyman Condo. Nick caught another one a few minutes later.

The taxi stopped outside the hospital in Vice Point. Andy got out, giving the driver an extra ten dollars for his speed. The driver sped off in high good humor as the Made Man walked forward.

The hospital was a fifteen-storey structure, painted white and green. A fountain outside it showed the hospital's wealth. The space in front of the hospital was of bright white concrete. He walked across the…space? He didn't know the term for it.

Opening the double glass doors, he walked into the structure. The faint, antiseptic smell of hospitals everywhere assaulted his nose, causing it to wrinkle. He never liked hospitals, but he had to go in. The reception counter was directly in front of him, currently staffed by two nurses attending to the families of a couple of patients. Several rows of seats, some filled, occupied most of the center of the room. A pair of elevators was set into the left wall. He made his way there, and called one, ignoring the people around him.

His father was hospitalized here, and was soon ready for outpatient status. It was only polite to visit him.

The elevator arrived, announcing its arrival with a loud ding. He entered it, and headed for the eighth floor. Nobody joined him.

Upon arrival, he walked down the green-painted corridor, hearing his footsteps. The nurses were busy tending to other patients. Bright lights overhead threw shadows behind him, mimicking his movements perfectly, almost mockingly. His father's ward was directly in front of him.

A person pushed him strongly against the wall—

"What the—"

—He felt his hands being pressed against the wall in the classic search position.

"This is a police inspection!" the person behind him boomed, frisking Andy.

"Yes sir," the Made Man muttered.

The searcher pulled him away from the wall.

"That's enough, Tony!"

Tony laughed, and pulled his brother away from the wall. Tony was 5'8", about two inches shorter than his older brother. Apart from that, they almost physically resembled each other, down to their brown eyes. Tony, however, had less wrinkles than Andy, and had higher cheekbones. Andy had a sharper nose, and a chin that was less well defined as his younger brother's. Tony was also a cop.

"All right, all right!"

"I hear you're going to be an inspector next, eh?"

"Damn right!"

The door opened, and a woman stepped out.

Andy only knew her by her first name: Christine. She was a klutzy twenty-three-year-old whose personality had drawn Tony to her. She was really plain, unless one counts her uncommon carelessness. She was dressed in a white blouse and light brown skirt, and had a violin case over her right shoulder.

"Oh, hello," she said.

"Hello."

Christine walked over to her fiancé.

"C'mon. I've got an audition, remember?"

"Yeah. I'll get the car. I'll meet you outside."

"Okay."

She turned around, instantly forgetting her fiancé and her future brother-in-law's position, or maybe the violin case. In either instance, the case swung around so violently that if either man had not ducked in time, they would have been bowled over.

Tony looked at her, shaking his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.

She walked on, and suddenly turned around, the violin case missing a patient by a millimeter.

"Hey! What are you waiting for? We're going to be late."

"Coming!" Tony replied, chasing after her.

She spun around again, the violin case bumping into a nurse. She apologized profusely as she ran.

The room was a private one. It was illuminated with a soft, orange glow from a table lamp on the table on the right, highlighting the orange-painted walls. A bed, currently occupied, took the far left corner.

"Dad," Andy whispered, walking towards him.

Andy's father was an old man; maybe sixty-five, seventy, Andy wasn't really sure. His face was lined with stress lines and wrinkles, indicating the highly stressful nature of his previous job. A head of white hair on his head added some dignity to his gaunt frame. His brown eyes turned to his visitor.

"Andy…how're you?" he asked in a hoarse bass voice, if a voice could ever be described as such.

"Better than you, old man," Andy said, walking up to him.

The old man chuckled.

"Indeed. The docs say that I can be released in two days, though. How are you?"

"Fine. I've another job coming up in Tallahassee."

Both men knew what 'job' meant. Two generations of their family had been serving a drug dealer named Juan Martinez, Ricardo Diaz when he killed Martinez and took over, then Tommy Vercetti.

"I'm planning on making it my last one. After that, I'll leave, settle down, and earn an honest living." Fifteen years of servitude was by-God enough. Serving an empire of evil leads to damnation, or so he was told. His soul tormented him every day for his association with Vercetti, and he had enough.

"Good. Your brother still doesn't know you're working for Vercetti?"

"No, and neither does anyone else who doesn't need to know."

"Excellent. I was wondering if I'd ever see this day."

His father had served for thirty years, catching more than his fair share of bullets and police attention. He had never once been caught, like his son. The fact that he had been a gangster still tore him apart ten years after the fact. The only reason he was allowed to retire was the fact that he was too old to do anything else apart from accountancy, which his boss had too many practitioners of.

Andy chuckled.

"Good…in the past, you and your brother loved to play 'police and thief', with you always being the thief. I always hoped that I'd never see it happen in real life. It'll be far easier for your brother if he doesn't know that you're a gangster, both for his career, and for his soul."

"Yeah."

Meanwhile in Vice City Concert Hall

The concert hall had been built only about three months ago, hence its relative lack of damage. However, it already had a faint coating of grime like all of the buildings in VC, although it was not very obvious.

They were almost late. Tony had to plead for a last chance before the judges finally relented. Christine was auditioning for the role of a violinist. The seats were unoccupied save for five; the judges took four, and Tony took the last, only because he was granted permission to do so. The air conditioning was at full blast, causing Tony to sit on his hands. The four judges, clad in jackets, didn't seem to mind.

The lights in the seating area had been turned down, allowing the judges to see the would-be player on the brightly illuminated stage that much better. Christine's stand was in place, and so was her seat. The only thing missing was she.

She came in from the backstage, violin case in hand. She walked to the front of the stage.

"You are Christine Graham, correct?" the second judge asked.

"Yes sir," she whispered nervously.

"Okay. Play whenever you're ready, Christine."

She walked tensely over to the chair, and sat down. She removed the score from her case, and placed it one the stand before removing her violin and mounting it.

At least she didn't screw up, Tony thought.

The piece of music she had chosen was 'As Time Goes By,' something best reserved for a piano. A judge frowned upon hearing the melody being brutalized by her nervous hand. Another one raised an eyebrow, hearing this familiar tune being played badly by an unfamiliar instrument. Even her fiancé winced, disheartening her.

The judge next to Tony looked at him and clapped, smiling a smile as genuine as a three-dollar bill as he did so. He was the head judge, and only his opinion really mattered.

She slipped.

The violin flew out of her hands, and collided with the stand. The latter flew for a foot or so, landing with a loud metallic 'clack' and scattering her score around the stage. She gasped, ran over to the stand, and rearranged everything. Replacing the stand, she turned to the judges.

"That'll be quite enough, thank you," the head judge said.

She returned the violin to its case as Tony quietly left the audience hall.

Tony and Christine met up outside.

"It was horrible, wasn't it?" she asked, on the verge of tears.

"Well…you did your best, Chris. That's all that mattered."

"But—"

"Shh…" he whispered, taking her into his arms. He felt her sob against his chest for a minute.

"Better now?" he asked tenderly.

"Yes, yes…let's go."

She turned around, and the heavy violin case collided with the window glass of a moving car next to her, shattering it into a thousand fragments. The Sentinel came to a stop, and the driver popped his head out, looking at the damage. It was the head judge.

"Come on!" Tony called.

The cop grabbed his fiancé's free hand and ran.

Later, in Ammu-Nation (Downtown)…

Ammu-Nation was a nation-wide chain of arms stores, selling firearms of all types to civilians, along with ammunition. Anything could be bought from it, if one had enough money, of course. Federal Firearms Licenses were mere inconveniences to the owner(s) of Ammu-Nation, assuming that he/she/they even cared.

This particular shop was Nick's favorite. It had a firing range, which he frequented, and sold all sorts of weaponry and ammo for low prices...since he was a Made Man, of course. The driver dropped him off outside the one-story shop before driving off to see his boss.

Nick sauntered in, shoes hardly making any noise against the concrete floor. He had stubbed out his cigarette at the dustbin outside the shop. There were all manner of weaponry, explosives, ammunition, and survival gear on display at the various counters at the back of the shop, but today, Nick had something important to do.

"Hey, Nick!" the shopkeeper called. He was a 'regular', after all.

"Hey. Is Phil here?"

"Yeah. He said he started shooting without you. He's downstairs at the range."

"Okay…I'll take five boxes of .45 ACP please."

"Hold on…" the man knelt down, and produced five boxes marked 'WINCHESTER 45 AUTOMATIC', and beneath that was '230 GR. FULL METAL CASE'.

"That'll be…seventy-five dollars, please."

Nick removed his wallet, and extracted a hundred-dollar note before passing it to him.

"And keep the change," Nick said, grabbing the boxes and heading downstairs. The bullets were for the magazines he would soon be using.

The firing range had six lanes. Yellow lines painted on the concrete defined the lanes, as though the partitions couldn't. Bright white lights glared from above, illuminating the area. The metal backstop was pockmarked with hundreds of bullet holes of various calibers.

A man stood at the number two lane, Colt M1911A1 in his right hand. He had long, blond hair, slightly overweight, and was clad in a brown T-shirt and blue jeans.

"Hey Nick," Phil Cassidy said.

"Hello. Shot without me?"

"Hey, you're late for our special match," he pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah…what's your score?"

"Sixty."

"Sixty? Hah! I can shoot better than that!"

"Prove it."

"You said so."

Nick walked to the number three lane, putting his ear and eye protection on, and drew his twin Colt M1911A1s. His left foot and arm was leading, supporting his right leg and arm. His arms were slightly bent for greater flexibility and lesser muscle tension. He was right handed, and only used that hand for shots needing greater accuracy. The other hand was for other targets.

"Okay…live ammunition! Three, two, one, FIRE!" Cassidy called. He didn't bother with ear protection. Oops.

Three man-sized targets, built of yellow plastic, came out from the sides. Each had five parts. To score one point, one must destroy the closest target. Earning two points required one to take the second target apart. Three points were awarded if he third target is disintegrated.

Nick trained the pistols on his targets, and pulled the triggers. He saw two plastic lower torso parts shatter, and he reaimed, blowing another two lower torso parts apart. The next two shattered the heads of the second and third heads simultaneously. The next four exploded the remaining parts.

Taking aim, he fired rapidly, seeing the upper torso and head of the nearest target blow apart in a spray of plastic. The next two shots destroyed the target. The left pistol's slide locked back on empty, and the right one's remaining bullet was expended on the farthest target's head.

Six points.

He ejected the magazines of both weapons simultaneously, and reached into his ammo carriers. He reloaded the right pistol, followed by the left one, and hit the slide release catch, feeding a round into each pistol's chamber.

The next nine shots were discharged as rapidly as Nick could aim, blowing away the furthest and middle targets. The last one received four shots, removing the torso section. Nick reloaded, and fired one bullet to finish the target.

Twelve points.

The farthest target came out of the left side, and the middle one came from the right. Nick crossed his arms and pulled the triggers smoothly, stopping only to re-aim. The nearest one again took four torso shots before he reloaded and fired a final shot into its skull.

And so it went, with Nick firing away at his targets. Cassidy's eyes opened wide as he shot his way to sixty points in ninety seconds, and his jaw fell off when Nick expended all but one round in his magazines in forty-five seconds. Each man was allowed to shoot as many rounds as one wanted in this match. The goal was to get as high a score as possible before time ran out, or destroy all the targets; something only two other men had ever done before. Nick was too busy firing to care.

While Cassidy was staring dumbfounded, Nick was still shooting. His superior eye-hand coordination was the key to his technique and speed. He took aim at the last target, and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into the head of the last target, and exploded it just as the buzzer sounded. The pistol locked back on empty, and the last brass casing landed on the floor, joining several dozens of its fellows. The thunder of the shots had barely faded when Nick turned around.

"Not bad, eh? I got a perfect!"

"What?"

Nick had to repeat five times, each shout becoming progressively louder, until Cassidy could hear his voice past the ringing in his ears.

"Damn! You're the third person to get that!"  
"Ah well…a deal's a deal, Phil. Hell, just to make you feel better, I'll pick up all the brass and throw 'em away."

"All right, all right," he said good-naturedly, handing a hundred dollar bill over, "remind me never to enter a shooting match with you."

Nick laughed as he accepted the money. He had to reload the magazines he used later…after he was done cleaning up.

Author's Note: In keeping with the spirit of the movie, I have modified a few scenes in the story. Some scenes had to be modified so that they'll make some more sense (in Western minds). Also, Nick's counterpart in _A Better Tomorrow_ didn't go shooting, but he wasn't mentioned at all in the movie, so I went ahead and placed the final scene in. Finally, I changed Andy's pistol, since his previous one probably never existed at all, according to my notes.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Last Deal 

Darkness fell. With the passing of light came the coming of darkness, both in terms of brightness, and of morality. The police became a little more vigilant; as though it would do anyone save themselves and a few lucky people some good, Andy thought, as he exited his taxi outside the Malibu.

The Malibu nightclub had been reopened after three months of renovation work. After Tommy Vercetti had solidified his grip on Vice City, he had decided to use some of his cash to improve his businesses, and in turn, generate more cash.

Andy entered the nightclub without so much as a cursory inspection from the bouncers. By now, he had changed into a white polo shirt and gray trousers with black pseudo-leather shoes. Smart casual attire was the dress code of the club, and it never pays to advertise when you're not on a job. They nodded as he passed. He was a Made Man, and Made Men were granted instant respect from anyone below them, meaning everyone except the boss.

The exterior facade remained unchanged, save for a large section jutting out of the back. That was where the renovation work had mainly focused on.

The interior of the nightclub was lit by flickering disco lights, illuminating the dance floor, the main highlight of the nightclub. Several dozen patrons were on the dance floor, gyrating to a techno dance beat while being led by several leaders on the stage. The guards looked impassively on.

The bar had been removed, and relocated. The nightclub had been expanded, adding more flooring, lighting, and electronics. The bar had been shifted to the far end of the wall. Several female waitresses in scarlet miniskirts, thigh-high leather boots and cleavage-revealing red shirts circulated around the room, bearing drinks for customers. Some of them naturally offered 'special' services, for a price, of course. Some of their take would go back to the nightclub's management, which gave it to the boss. Or the boss would just take the money himself and save the management the trouble.

Andy shook his head. He'd been in the Mob for too damn long.

He made his way to the far right corner of the bar. He walked through the dance floor, avoiding the dancers as much as he could. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, but no so much as to choke him. His nose wrinkled at the stench of secondhand smoke, though.

Passing by several tables, he arrived at the table. The corner table had a tangible advantage to anyone discussing confidential matters; anyone who was eavesdropping could be spotted easily, and walls can hide no man.

Nick was there, nursing a beer. He was dressed in a brown vest over a white T-shirt and brown trousers. A paper bag lay on his lap. He looked up, and nodded in recognition.

"Hey Andy."

The older man nodded, and sat opposite he.

"Want your gun and ammo back?" Nick asked.

"…"

The pistol and magazines had been gifts to him from Tommy Vercetti. The Beretta was still being evaluated as the US Army's next pistol, right? Andy didn't know, and Nick only paid attention to American guns, not Italian ones.

Tommy wanted them to be parting gifts; he left for NY a week later. Andy had seen them as confirmation that he was a mobster. Like it or not, though, it would be the gun that he would have to carry until he was free. It was the only way; respect came in many forms, and this was one of them. Respect is the only thing that mattered in the underworld.

Dammit.

"Yeah."

The gunman extracted the pistol and magazines from his bag, and handed them to his partner, who placed them in his over-sized gray jacket. The added weight was not reassuring, rather like more weight added to the burden on his soul.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Mike came into the nightclub. He was, like them, a Caucasian, although at six foot one taller than either. But not by much. He was in his white cotton shirt, and blue jeans, making him look like an average guy having a beer after a hard day's work.

Mike arrived at the corner table.

"Mike," Andy said.

"Hi, Mike," Nick greeted.

He nodded, and sat down. Leaning forward, he brought his hands up and grasped them.

"Right. Our next deal is in Tallahassee. The boss wants to expand operations there. We're dealing with this guy named Oliver Powers. Powers is in control of a major coke distribution network, and we want a cut of it.

"We'll be going to Tallahassee in two days, with five grand. He wants that much in exchange for five keys of coke. The street price is worth more than that, but this is his introductory offer. We leave tomorrow at 7 p.m. Andy…you know business, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. The two of us will negotiate further when dealing with him. Tommy wants at least a five percent cut of his take, but Powers will only negotiate once he has the cash. Nick, you'll back us up."

"Actually…I'm going to stay here, and take care of things for Andy."

Mike nodded. He, too, knew about Andy's retirement.

"Okay. In that case, Andy and I will go to Tallahassee. Nick, stay here."

"Okay," both men said simultaneously.

"Good. Now, let's grab a beer."

Three beers later, the men were still talking shop.

"On my first deal, we were double-crossed by the gang we were doing business with. I ended up having two pistols at my head!"

"Really?" Mike replied.

"Hell, yeah. Andy was being covered by this bastard with a sawn-off twelve gauge. Their boss wanted us to drink a glass of champagne. I thought, 'Okay, that's reasonable,' so I downed it in one go. We thought he was done, but he wasn't. That son of a bitch actually got a glass of piss and forced me to drink it! It was my first deal, and the first time I drank urine!"

"Damn!" was Mike's response.

"Anyways, ever since then, nobody's pointed a gun at my head…and lived!" Nick concluded.

Andy checked his watch.

"Hey guys, I've gotta go."

"Sure. Bye," Nick said.

"Good night, Andy," Mike replied.

Andy left, leaving the other two Made Men to continue their drinking.

Vice City Police Headquarters, the next morning

There was something about the police that he respected. Hell, his own brother was a cop. The police headquarters represented the command center of the city's police force, and as a result, was among the largest municipal buildings in the city. It was mostly surrounded by a chain-link fence, topped by barbed wire, to keep out the most casual of intruders.

Andy arrived outside the entrance of the building, turned, and faced outwards. It felt like walking into the enemy's camp, except that he didn't know who you were. That thought provided no relief.

He waited.

A familiar face appeared in front of he.

"Tony!"

"Andy!"

The cop came up to his brother, and threw a right uppercut. Andy stepped backwards, hands reaching out to block his blow. Tony lunged forward, causing his brother to lean backwards and avoid his incoming right fist. Tony next strike, a left straight, caught him in the lower abdomen.

"You should punch more punching bags!" Andy laughed, even though he knew that Tony deliberately lightened his attack so much that it felt like a light push than a real punch.

"Yeah, yeah."

Tony was in his police uniform, a tan-brown shirt on darker brown trousers. A Colt M1911A1 rested in his holster, next to three spare magazines and his baton. A pair of handcuffs was on the left side of his belt, along with a police radio.

"Tony…I've got a business deal in Tallahassee. Mind holding the fort 'til I get back?"

"No sweat. Chris can tend to the old man."

"Good."

Tallahassee, a day later…

Andy and Mike exited their car. They were in the outskirts of Tallahassee…at least, that was what Andy thought. Everything looked cleaner than Vice City's buildings, which wasn't very remarkable. There were only four houses in the immediate area, all single-storey, and they were all scattered from each other. A hundred yards or so separated the house from the beginnings of the nearby swamps.

Andy was dressed in a flowing white cotton jacket that reached his knees, a pair of equally white trousers, a white shirt under the jacket, and a white tie. He even had a pair of white leather gloves. His sunglasses were black, of course. He positively reflected all of the sun's rays when they reached him.

Mike was wearing the same clothing Andy was, except that everything was black, except for the shirt.

"Come, come! Follow me," the man in front of them said cheerfully. Andy guessed that he was Powers.

They were surrounded by five men, dressed in casual attire, mostly T-shirts and shorts. Powers was in front of the car's hood. They all had smiling faces on, and seemed rather polite, but…Andy sensed that their smiles concealed daggers aimed at both him and Mike.

The men walked over to the single-storey house. It didn't look like it belonged to an American city…more like a Third World country. All of the walls were streaked with faded dirt and blood, and were pockmarked with bullets. The roof looked like it could slide away any second. The wooden door looked like it had been made of cheap material, and the dirt encrusted in its tiny holes made Andy wonder what the hell they were being led to.

The speaker opened the door, and showed both men into the living room. Two windows on the left allowed some sunlight into the room, but not a lot. A television set, circa 1970, sat on a wooden table on the door's left. A so-called sofa was about four feet away from the television, its faded and dirty fabric almost drawing a look of disgust from Andy. The floor was made of parquet, but it was chipped like all hell. Two doors on the far end and right respectively led to the other parts of the house.

"Sit, sit! Let me get the stuff," Powers said, before walking over to the rear left wall and reaching for a trunk there. Both men politely refused.

Outside, the local SWAT (Special Weapons And Tactics) team quietly took up positions, blocking off the main road. They were too slow in doing the back door, though.

Andy felt a chill running down his spine. His pistol, smuggled through Customs, trembled under his jacket.

Mike leaned against the right wall, watching the other guards. Causally, he placed his right hand into his right pocket, and gripped the Smith & Wesson 459 he had hidden there.

The four men stood around the room as their leader started yakking away. Andy's eyes focused on his hands. Mike looked at the gangster who had chosen to stand next to him. Another one had taken the doorway, and the other two were standing next to their leader.

Powers reached inside the trunk. Andy caught a glance of a flash of blued steel -

He reached into his coat, gripping his Beretta, and drew it, snicking off the safety. Powers turned around, a shotgun in his hands. Andy fired a shot, which shattered Power's left shoulder. Turning, he faced the gangster to Powers' left and shot him in the neck. Powers fell over, stunned. The other gangster pointed his gun at Andy. Mike drew his Smith, turned, and shot the gangster next to him in the face, spraying blood over the walls.

"TOC (Tactical Operations Command), be advised shots fired inside the building. Sounds like pistol fire. Requesting permission to execute."

"Roger. Execute when ready."

Andy dove over the sofa as Powers recovered. The latter raised his shotgun, and fired, catching Andy in the stomach with two pellets. The other gangster fired as well, but the bullet went wide. Mike fired at him, but missed, as he ducked. Mike turned, and shot twice at the gangster in the doorway, opening a hole in his chest. He followed through with a shot to the head.

Andy got up, and saw Powers. Raising the pistol, he aimed, and pulled the trigger. The 9x19 Parabellum bullet entered between Powers' eyes, shattering his head and blowing his brains out. Andy picked himself up as Mike shot the last gangster thrice in the heart.

Both men made their way to the other door. There could be other gangsters closing in, after all, and that door had to lead outside. Mike opened the door, and stepped out, Andy close behind, the pain in his wounds fading away.

The door burst open, revealing a SWAT officer in the doorway.

"Police! FREEZE!" he shouted, MP5 aiming at Andy.

"CRAP! RUN!"

Andy stepped outside, and discovered that he was outside the house. Guess he was right.

Both Made Men ran for the swamp, SWAT officers in pursuit. Mike led the way, clearing a path through the vegetation for Andy to follow. Crashing through the undergrowth, they kept on running, moving away from the house, keeping to dry areas. The swamp's crocodiles eyed the fleeing figures, and one of them hissed evilly.

Both men refused to stop running, at least until their breath gave out. The wounded man propped himself against a nearby mangrove tree while Mike just stood.

"Did you set me up?" Andy said, facing Mike. After all, only two other living people knew about the job: the boss, and Nick, both of whom Andy trusted. There was no way SWAT would have arrived so fast, unless someone betrayed them. Neither Andy nor Nick trusted Mike that much, and always felt that he would betray them eventually.

"If I did, would I be here?"

Of course not, Andy's mind whispered.

Then who?

Andy stood in silence for a few moments, before handing his Beretta to Mike.

"What are you doing?"

"Run!"

"You can't give yourself up!"

"Just run!"

"No, I won't-"

"Look. Take my gun, my ammo, and my gloves, and there'll be nothing for the cops to prove that I was there, all right? We wiped out the gang there, and dead men tell no tales. I wouldn't be serving hard or long time, if I do. Hell, the judge might even reduce my sentence since I gave myself in voluntarily. Besides, my wound will slow us down."

"I won't leave you behind."

"Then I'll shoot you, and let the crocodiles eat you," Andy replied coolly.

"Damn you, Andy."

Mike grabbed the pistol, and Andy stripped off his gloves before passing them on to Mike. Reaching into his pockets, he emptied them of their magazines and passed them to Mike.

"See you around," Andy whispered.

Andy turned around, and staggered away. He retraced his steps, thinking about his past. This was his one chance to be forever free of the Mafia, and still be in their good books. He had enough of being a criminal. It's time to start on the straight and narrow.

He stumbled out of the swamp, hands up, already knowing what to see. Police cars had quarantined the area, their lights flashing to warn passers-by. Every police officer had his or her gun drawn, and all of them were behind their car doors. He took a few more steps towards the police vehicles.

"Freeze!" the nearest cop said. He did just that, spine erect, hands straight, face devoid of emotion, letting these cops know what an honorable gangster is. The wound gave him hell for standing up straight, but some things were more important than that. Besides, it was only a flesh wound.

Two police officers approached him, weapons drawn and pointed at him.

"On your knees," the nearest one ordered. His partner nudged his shotgun a little to emphasize that order. They both knew where to send him when they were done: the local hospital. No ambulances were available, thanks to an accident on a freeway. The wound didn't look all that bad, anyway.

Andy did so stoically, without revealing anything on his face.

The police officer walked around and came up behind him, and holstered his pistol. He patted Andy down, finding nothing. He reached for a pair of handcuffs, and cuffed the criminal.

"On your feet!" he said, jerking Andy up. He didn't resist.

The police officer removed his Miranda card, and read off every line on it, just so that the tight-assed lawyers in America couldn't use 'improper recital of Miranda rights' or bullshit like that against him.

"Do you understand these rights?"

Andy nodded.

"Good."

The cop led Andy away, leading him into his car. There wasn't an ambulance available, incredibly enough. The gangster didn't struggle.

_Sorry, Tony_, Andy's mind whispered.

Author's Note: Sorry it took so bloody long. I'm being bombarded with tests and homework left, right, and center, and a piece of bad news almost blew my head apart. Literally. In the original movie, the deal was in Taiwan (Vice City was Hong Kong in the movie), the argument between Andy and Mike was slightly different, and I had to cut some scenes from the original to avoid spoiling the plot. Also, I extended the scene in the bar; I felt that the original bar scene was a little too short.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Retaliation 

Vice City, Washington Beach, 7:04 p.m.

It was raining. Liquid curtains fell from the sky, splashing against the road and pavement. Disintegrating black clouds obscured the night sky, either a bad omen or a natural phenomenon. There was nobody on the streets, and only the occasional car occupied the roads. A blue Sentinel was parked by the roadside, next to a telephone booth. Tony was inside, calling home.

Christine arrived home later than expected. She kicked her shoes off outside the door, placing her grocery bags on the floor as she did so. She fished into her purse, removing a key ring. She fumbled with it, and dropped it.

There was a man watching her from the stairwell behind her. He was dressed in a black jacket, blue trousers, and white shirt. A moustache was his only distinguishing feature.

Christine picked the key ring up, unlocked and opened the door. Picking the bags up, she entered the apartment, leaving the door wide open. The man smiled a little, and almost started to walk in. He could hear a telephone ringing within the apartment.

Christine heard the telephone too. Dropping the bags on the floor, she flipped the lights on and raced for the telephone on the coffee table to her right, about ten feet away. She picked it up.

Tony hung up. Christine probably isn't home yet. Ah, well. He walked back to his car.

"Hello?" Chris asked. There was nothing save for a dial tone. She shrugged, and grabbed the bags on the living room floor. She walked forward, and turned right, heading for the kitchen.

The man outside decided that it was safe, and walked in. The apartment's living room was rather spacious, he decided. There was a sofa on the left side of the room, a chair in front of him, and a table on the opposite end with a TV set on it. A coffee table was placed next to the chair, with a telephone on it. There was even a balcony, which could be accessed by a sliding glass door. A pair of thick curtains on either side of the sliding door shielded it from sight, but he knew what to look for. He heard footsteps coming his way.

She entered the kitchen, switching the lights on as she did so. She placed the grocery bags on the kitchen table, and grabbed a pot. She filled it up with water from a tap, and placed it on the stove. After turning up the fire, she walked away to check on her fiancé's father. She walked back into the living room, and turned left, walking down the corridor in front of her. The man stood in the balcony, shielded from casual sight by the thick curtains. The rain wasn't blowing into the balcony, fortunately.

Chris entered the old man's room. He was asleep on his bed, with a pair of earphones over his ears. Out of curiosity, she picked them up, and placed the earphones over her ears. The song currently being played was Abba's 'Dancing Queen', her favorite song. She smiled, and bounced along with the tune as she left, disc player in her left hand. Walking over to the living room, she finally noticed the open door, and walked over to it, closing and locking it. Not that it would do any good, the intruder decided from his spot. She walked over to the kitchen, and prepared her special corn soup.

The man left the balcony, and walked over to the corridor. There were five doors to choose from, one at the end and two on either side. He picked the closest one on his left. The room was brightly lit, instantly destroying his natural night vision. A cupboard was mounted on the left side of the room. There was a desk and a chair on the far end of the room, facing the windows. A bed was on the right, with his target on it. Walking over, he sat on the bed.

"Hi there," the man said.

The old man's eyes shot open.

"Who the-"

"My name is of no concern to you, nor is my method of entering your room. Your boy killed my old boss. My new one wants you to fly to Tallahassee to…talk things over."

The older man shook his head. In his thirty years of experience, he knew that it would only mean one thing: death.

"Too bad, then."

The man reached into his jacket, removing a Smith & Wesson Mark 22 Mod 0 from his shoulder holster. Better known as the 'Hush Puppy', it was developed for the Navy SEALs in the Vietnam War to quietly eliminate Vietcong sentries and guard dogs. A long suppressor was screwed on the end, the better to kill quietly.

She had prepared the soup's ingredients, and now all she had to do was to give the old man his medicine. She reached into one of thee bags and removed a bottle of pills. She walked to the old man's room; still singing.

The assassin aimed the pistol at the old man. The ex-criminal lunged forward with a newfound strength, grabbing his assailant's arm with both hands and throwing his aim off just as he pulled the trigger. The 9x19 mm bullet cratered into the wall next to the bed, doing no damage to either man.

Gunfire is unmistakable, suppressed or not. Christine thought she had heard a loud pneumatic stapler being fired in old man's room. She stepped in, bottle in hand, wondering what it was.

The criminal grabbed the ex-criminal's hands, trying to wrench them off. Andy and Tony's father shouted, "Christine! Run and get help!"

_Who the hell's Christine!_ He turned away from his target, seeing a frightened woman in the doorway, dropping whatever the hell she was holding on the floor. Now, he'd have to kill h-

The old man released one of his hands on the arm, and punched his opponent in the face. He rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a loud thud. The gun clattered out of his hand. Both men reached for it.

What the hell was that? Tony thought from the doorway. He turned, and saw Chris running towards him, a distraught expression on her face. His hands reached for his backup revolver, a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnum with a 2.5 inch barrel.

"What's wrong?"

"There's an armed man trying to kill your father in his room!" she screamed.

Shit.

Two suppressed gunshots pierced the air.

SHIT!

"Get down and call the cops," he whispered. She nodded, running for the telephone.

He gripped the .357 Magnum revolver low in both hands, pointing it at a forty-five degree angle downward, and ran to his father's room. Running to the door, he heard a muffled thud, and another. He recognized it for what it was. In movies, this is the time when the character starts worrying. Tony didn't. He reverted back to his training.

He stepped into the room. He saw a stranger on the floor, pistol in his right hand, fitted with a long silencer. His father was lying forward on the bed, with two dark holes in his chest, roughly over where the heart was.

"POLICE! DROP THE GUN!" Tony roared, aiming the revolver at the criminal's chest and cocking the weapon.

The murderer turned around, and brought his weapon to bear on the cop.

Tony pulled the trigger, sending a .357 Magnum jacketed hollow point bullet into the criminal's chest. The bullet blew through his ribcage like a hot knife through butter, and burst his heart into pulp.

Tony fired again, and again, barely noticing the recoil or muzzle flash. The next two bullets finished what their predecessor had started, completely eviscerating the criminal's heart. He fell over backwards, dropping the pistol. Rushing over, Tony felt for a pulse, already knowing that there wasn't. He rushed over to his father.

"Dad!"

The old man stared at him. He had a thousand things to say, and all of them wanted to burst forth from his mouth. But, he knew what was the most important.

"Tony, don't blame your brother."

Using up his last breath, the old man fell forwards, and collapsed naturally to the ground. Robert DiMilo, ex-gangster, was dead.

Tony reached over to feel for a pulse. There wasn't, as expected.

"DAD!" he screamed.

Tallahassee, the following morning

Nick had flown into the city. Andy was late, and when he was, something very bad had happened. He was, again, the gunman, dressed in his black trench coat, black trousers, white shirt, black leather shoes, and black sunglasses.

He was sitting at a bench in a park, reading a newspaper.

He caught the headlines, and the newspaper fell from his hands. His cigarette soon followed, landing on the discarded paper. Clenching his hands into stone fists of rage, he walked away.

A nearby boy wondered why that stranger didn't pick his paper up.

"Mister! Hey mister!"

The man didn't turn.

"You forgot your newspaper!"

He kept on walking.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, and looked at the paper.

DRUG RING SMASHED VICE CITY MOBSTER AMONG MEN ARRESTED 

Nick knew where to go. He had caught a taxi, and gave the driver directions by heart. Upon arrival, he gave him a twenty-dollar bill.

"And keep the change," he said, before walking off.

He was in front of what claimed to be a bar. It was really the headquarters of an Outfit, one that specialized in drugs, gambling, and information. Nick needed the last. He walked to the front door of the two-storey concrete building, under the sign 'Ricky's Bar'.

There were two bouncers there, both of them having served the big man for ten years. They recognized Tony, and let him in without a word.

The bar was off peak hours. Nobody was sitting at the chairs and tables scattered around the room. Only two die-hard customers were sitting at the bar, and were quietly nursing their beers. The waitresses and strippers were at home, sleeping away a night of work and/or 'pleasure'. A staircase to the bar's right, guarded by two small fry, led upstairs, to the office.

Nick knew the bartender, and the barkeep knew Nick by his reputation. He knew that Nick was some sort of professional killer working for Thomas Vercetti. He also knew that he couldn't be here for a drink.

"I need to talk to Big Ricky," Nick said. Only Made Men were allowed to refer to Richard Forrest like that. The bartender's eyes narrowed.

"For?"

"Business matters as a direct result of yesterday's events."

The bartender allowed his surprise to filter through. That was the code phrase for a man being sent on a mission of vengeance, according to Mr. Forrest. And if anyone says that, show him to the boss, and don't ask any questions, one of his Made Men added.

"Okay."

He turned to the guards.

"Bob, Dave, show him to the boss," he called.

The gangsters turned, seeing the Made Man.

"Come right this way, sir," the left man said.

"Sure."

Both gangsters flanked Nick as they walked up the wooden stairs. At the top, they found themselves in a corridor outside an office. Four guards, openly carrying Uzis, were standing next to the only door in or out.

"Steve says to let him see the boss," the man on Nick's right said.

"Who's he?" a guard asked.

"Nick Caruso," Nick replied.

One of the guards nodded, and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" a voice demanded from within.

"Nick Caruso, boss."

"Nick Caruso…let him in."

The guard opened the door, and showed Nick in.

The office wasn't very impressive. The wall in front of the door was really a full-length window. A desk stood on the right side of the room, with a yellow couch in front of it. A telephone, one of the newer models, was on it. Several folders were staked neatly next to the telephone. A Persian rug covered the floor, contrasting with the white-painted walls.

Nick walked in, escorted by the guard. He turned to face the desk, seeing a middle-aged Caucasian standing behind it, a sign of respect for the Made Man. The boss was theoretically superior to the gangster from Vice City, but only theoretically.

"Bob, mind if you leave? We want our privacy."

The guard nodded, and left.

"Please sit."

Both men sat down.

"How may we help you, Mr. Caruso?"

"I have a friend. He arrived in Tallahassee yesterday to conduct a business deal with Oliver Powers. Only a few people knew about the deal. The men on my end are beyond suspicion. I want to know who in Tallahassee betrayed my friend. If you find him, I will consider your debt to me honored in full."

"Very well, Mr. Caruso, but I cannot guarantee any results."

"Thank you."

The man reached for the telephone, and made some calls, dialing the numbers without referring to anything. After some time, the phone rang. Picking it up, the boss listened, said 'Thank you,' and hung up.

"The man you're looking for is Thomas Kelly, Oliver Powers' boss. Kelly wanted to weaken Thomas Vercetti by removing his best men, and pin the blame on someone else. In this case, he used Powers as his Judas goat. When Vercetti contacted Powers, Powers told his boss, and Kelly set up the deal that ultimately ended up in what happened yesterday.

" Kelly's having dinner at the Shanghai Inn tonight at seven. He'll be in Room 20. You might wish to pay him a visit."

Nick smiled a little, and thanked him. He stood, and turned.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"How many men do you need?"

He merely smiled before leaving.

Seven fifteen p.m., the Shanghai Inn

Nick drove his rented Mercedes into the restaurant's parking lot, and left it after it was parked. The parking lot wasn't particularly full or large, so it was rather easy for him to make a quick getaway.

The night air was cold and still as Nick strode into the restaurant. He knew it, all right. The hostesses there were all Chinese either in race or nationality, and willing to offer 'special' services. The entire restaurant had no common eating area; rather it had twenty separate rooms in a common corridor. After all, it wasn't just a restaurant.

Lanterns hung from the neon-lit signboard, each bearing a Chinese character. The signboard read 'The Shanghai Inn'. A pair of smiling hostesses dressed in traditional Chinese _cheongsams_ and high heels flanked the door. Their dresses had specially cut slits reaching to the waist, exposing the entire leg. Nick smiled at them as he entered.

The reception counter was on his right, manned by another young Chinese woman, dressed in a modified green _cheongsam_. A hostess stood on her right, wearing a blue _cheongsam_, again slit to the waist.

"Do you have a reservation, sir?" the receptionist enquired.

"Yes. It's under the name 'Nick Smith'," Nick replied.

She checked a list on a clipboard in front of her.

"Okay, Mr. Smith. You're in Room 16."

"Thank you."

"Would you like to have a companion, Mr. Smith?"

As if on cue, the other hostess hooked her arm around his left arm.

"Sure," Nick replied.

"Let's go, handsome," she whispered seductively into his ear.

They walked down the corridor, which was lined with potted plants. Nick wrapped his left arm around her slender waist, and caressed her left leg. She shivered in response. Meanwhile, Nick quietly reached into a pocket with his free hand, and removed a Colt Government Model Blue Series 80 pistol, placing it in a nearby potted plant._ She knows how to give a guy a hard-on_, he thought. Too bad he had business to attend to.

She nestled her head in his neck, moaning as she did so, and he brought her closer to him. He turned around clockwise while moving forward, reaching into another pocket. He kissed her, and placed another pistol into another potted plant, turning as he did so.

And so, the dance went on. He continued caressing and kissing her lightly, occasionally turning. He maintained the illusion, not even pausing to think, letting his body move freely.

They stopped outside Room 16.

"Go inside, first, hon. I've got to go to the gents first," Nick whispered.

"Okay."

She entered the room, facing him and closing the door slowly with a seductive smile. He smiled, and turned away. The second the door closed, it faded into an ice-cold face. Reaching into his trench coat, he removed a pair of gloves and put them on before extracting another pair of Colt Governments and cocked them with his thumbs before disengaging their safety catches.

He strode over to Room 4, and braced himself. Placing an ear next to the door, he heard some whistling and catcalls, along with a heavy techno beat. It was occupied, all right, and not by one or two men. He had eighteen rounds in total, one in the chamber of each pistol, and it was enough.

He took a deep breath. He let it out. He took another one.

He kicked the door down and stepped in, interrupting the festivities within and raising his pistols. A smiling pair of hostesses was in the middle of the room, stripped to their skimpy underwear, and in the process of removing them in a striptease. Their _cheongsams_ were next to them, arranged in an untidy heap. There were nine men in the room, two next to the door and seven sitting down at the table. They froze, and stared at him.

The gunman had no need for words; his guns would do the talking.

His right gun aligned itself with the man at the opposite end of the table, and his left gun crossed over his right arm, its muzzle a millimeter from the guard's chest. The girls screamed and ducked. He pulled the triggers, sending two .45 hardball rounds into two men. The first bullet broke a porcelain bowl apart in an explosion of china as it traveled, and smashed into the man's chest and knocked him over while the second blew a large hole in its target's heart. The bullet casings flew out of the ejection ports as he brought the pistols down from recoil.

He fired his left gun at a gangster on the right side of the table, three bullets ripping his chest open in a crimson spray, while crossing his right gun over his left arm and opened a hole in the other guard's head, blowing blood and brains out. More bullet casings were spat out of the ejection ports, ricocheting against the walls as they descended. The gangsters slumped forward, blood and gore staining the table red.

A gangster on the left started to reach for his gun, but Nick was faster, obliterating his lower jaw in a cloud of pink and blowing him backwards. The other gangsters cleared their guns in time for Nick to aim his weapons at them, one gangster to a pistol. The Made Man blazed through the rest of his mags, blowing their upper torsos, necks, and heads apart in two separate blazes of gunfire. They fell to their sides, bleeding from their multiple wounds.

The empty guns emitted smoke from their hot barrels as the professional killer scanned the area. All of the gangsters were down, and not moving. He released the blue-almost-black pistols from his grip, letting them fall and hit the ground. They bounced once as they impacted with the ground, landing with a soft _thud_.

"Get dressed, and get out," he ordered. The girls complied, quickly reaching for their clothing.

He left the room, and walked down the corridor.

After some time, he arrived at his second pistol. A door opened behind him. Spinning around, he grabbed the pistol with his right hand, cocking it and disengaging the safety as he turned, and knelt down in one fluid motion, his trench coat fluttering as he moved.

There were three criminals in front of him, armed with pistols. Easy targets.

Bringing the pistol up in both hands, Nick aimed at the closest gangster, and pulled the trigger. His first bullet entered the guy's chest, and the next two printed a large hole in his heart. Switching targets, he fired at the next gangster just as a bullet passed over his head. Ignoring it, he shot the gangster three times in the upper body, at least one round coring his head in a storm of brains, blood, and bone. The last one took another three shots to the chest and face, falling over backwards immediately.

He got up, and tossed the empty weapon aside. Reaching into a pocket, he removed a matchstick and wedged it between his teeth, a grim smile playing across his lips.

The man was lying under the wooden table. He recalled what happened just before that gunman came in and blew everyone to hell. His chest burned, and he remembered the shooter's bullet. He removed his Browning High Power from his pocket, and crawled forward, suit soaking up his blood, along with that of others. His legs had failed him, despite his best efforts. The girls had left.

When he reached the door, he crawled forward, and looked around. Through the pain, he registered the shooter's back, and he aimed the gun at him as best as he could before pulling the trigger.

The gunshot came as a surprise, registering as a murderously hard punch. It entered his lower right calf, just below the kneecap, and blew out, breaking the bone as it did. The next shot came even closer to the kneecap, and caused even more damage. Crying out in pain, he fell forward, right hand reaching desperately into the potted plant and left hand breaking his fall. The next shot entered his kneecap, shattering it and forever maiming him. His fingers closed around a pistol grip.

Spinning around, he brought the pistol to bear on the new criminal on the ground, and pulled the trigger once, twice, thrice, hardly feeling the recoil. The bullets entered his armpit, and smashed through his lungs, eventually entering his heart.

Nick got up, and limped towards the criminal, his wound leaving a bloody trail.

He placed the gun's muzzle at the dead man's head and pulled the trigger. And again. And again. And again. And again. And one more time, emptying the weapon. The criminal's head became a shattered mess of blood, brains and bone. Hell, there wasn't a head to speak of.

Nick smiled a cold, evil grin.

Take that, asshole.

Later in the evening…

The air was filled with the smell of death when Detective Chia stepped out of his car, dressed in a white cotton shirt and black trousers. He looked around.

The Shanghai Inn's parking lot was filled with police cars and ambulances, all parked haphazardly, as people in a hurry were wont to do. Cops stood around, discussing the murder and/or anything under the sun…moon, in this case. There weren't any live ones, Chia decided.

He was an outwardly old man, the wrinkles on his face giving truth to that observation. Large, magnified brown eyes looked out at the world, still retaining their spark of life. He wore even larger tortoiseshell spectacles, the kind whose ratio of length and height is equal to a television screen, and had the side effect of magnifying his eyes. Two pink arches defined his mouth, above which were two moles, each above one half of his mouth.

Around this time, the Crime Scene Investigators would have taken control of the scene. Chia was Homicide, automatically receiving the case. Reaching into his wallet, he removed his badge and police ID, palming them as he walked.

The door was barred by police tape, and guarded by a sergeant. A flash of his detective ID and badge was sufficient to convince the sergeant to let Chia pass. Chia ducked under the tape and walked into the crime scene.

Another detective was interviewing the distraught receptionist, simultaneously trying to calm her down and get a statement from her. A pair of investigators was examining a body, whose head was replaced by a huge pool of blood and brains, as though his entire body had bled out. Nine cartridge casings and an empty pistol next to the body explained the cause of his death, but not who had shot him. For now.

Chia walked over to the two investigators, carefully avoiding the evidence.

"Detective Chia. Anything special about this body?" he asked, flashing his badge.

"Apart from the fact that it doesn't have a head? Well, each of his hands has tattoos on 'em. No wallet, no ID; apart from the tattoos we ain't got no form of ID," an investigator said.

"Tattoos?"

"Take a look, Detective," his buddy replied.

Chia stooped down, and looked at the dead body's hands, avoiding the still pool of blood and brains.

The back of the left hand had eight tattoos, each a scarlet star. The other hand had more stars, giving a total of eighteen.

"…Isn't this Thomas Kelly?" Chia wondered out loud.

"How do you know? And who's Kelly?" the first investigator asked.

"Kelly's a local drug dealer. More often than not, I had to investigate his murders. He has killed eighteen men. He likes to tattoo a star on his hands for every kill."

"Ah…"

Kelly was Oliver Powers' boss. Powers got killed yesterday, along with some of his crew. That Vice City mobster…what's his name? Nicholas DiMilo? He was arrested yesterday, and the word on the street was that he had been set up. So, if Powers set DiMilo up, and DiMilo's boss gets shot dead…revenge hit? Maybe. It's worth asking DiMilo again. If he would just open his mouth and say something…

Author's Note: Despite my best efforts, this is the most heavily modified scene I had to write. The scene in the apartment took longer, largely because both the cop and assassin lost their weapons; Christine used the soup on the shooter, etc. I cut it short because I felt that the original was too unclear. The opening scene in Tallahassee is slightly different from the movie, since the movie uses a camera, and I don't. If you've watched it, you'll know what I mean. The bar in Tallahassee never existed in the movie; it was an office, but it'll be kind of disconcerting (in a story) to have a character in one place, and suddenly be in another without saying how he got there. The restaurant scene had to be modified, as the opening sequence wouldn't make sense if I didn't. Finally, the final scene is far longer than that in the movie, but I felt that I had to put it in.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Aftermath 

1990

Vice City

"Who d'you think you're?" the criminal screamed.

Tony didn't bother with an answer. After all, people like that punk don't need answers to their unbelievably stupid questions.

Grabbing his arms, Tony escorted him into the police station. The crook tried to struggle, not even caring about the fact that the handcuffs he had were too difficult for people like he to break free from.

"My brother's a lawyer!" he screamed.

A raised eyebrow was the inspector's only reply. There were too many lawyers in this city…hell, America.

The inspector brought him through the reception area, and manhandled him until they were past a certain door set into the wall. It was marked 'DISPATCH'. The cop stood on its left, temporarily leaving his charge behind.

"What the f-"

"COME OUT!" Inspector DiMilo called, knocking on the door.

The door burst open, slamming into the criminal's face and dislocating his nose. He went down with a strangled cry as a cop stuck her head out from the doorway.

"Yes, Inspector?"

"Nothing. Thank you. You may go back in, now."

The police officer shrugged, and closed the door. The desk sergeant on duty chuckled a little.

"What the hell is this! Police brutality!" the punk roared.

"No. It was an accident. I asked the dispatch officer to come out, and when she opened the door, it crashed into your face," Tony replied matter-of-factly. The duty sergeant laughed out loud, along with the civilians in the reception area.

"You bastard!"

"Curse and swear all you like. Let's go."

The Inspector picked the criminal up, and led him downstairs. The criminal decided that no, everyone would say that it was an accident, so there was no point saying anything more. The civilians actually applauded as he was led away, and _that_ would take too long to live down.

The men descended the concrete steps, entering the holding cells. The cop made a right turn, and opened a green metal door marked 'INTERROGATION'.

The room within was lit by a several fluorescent lights mounted on the ceiling, revealing a metal table and four chairs, two on two ends, in the middle. One of the seats facing the door was occupied by the criminal's brother.

The Inspector walked the criminal over to his brother.

"Did the police mistreat you?" the lawyer asked, seeing his brother's damaged nose.

"No."

Outside a prison in Florida

It was a bright cold day in April, and Andy's new digital watch showed 1300.

Freedom.

For three years, he had kept his mouth shut, saying nothing about what had happened, revealing nothing about himself except his name. For some reason, the district attorney only managed to get him to be charged with flight from justice. The DA had no proof whatsoever that Andy was in the Mob, or even fired a shot, hence his sentence. The hospital stay lasted for one month, preliminaries were six months in the making, the song and dance that was the trial took four months, and he was only sentenced eighteen months ago.

Behind him was the prison he had left. It was situated a ways out of the main cities, since no one would tolerate prisons in the cities.

Andy didn't serve hard time. His fellow prisoners treated him as a hero, taking the fall for a friend. Everyone knew not to touch him, since they all knew what the Vercetti gang was. His warden had presented him with the watch upon release, and had called for a taxi to send him away. He had even waived the bill.

Andy was dressed in a muted green windbreaker, white T-shirt, and brown trousers; all of them bought some time back. He walked forward, heading for the cab in front of him.

"Andrew DiMilo!" a voice called.

Andy turned around.

It was Detective Chia, dressed the same way he had last seen him; long black overcoat, black shirt, black trousers, and black leather shoes. This guy loved the color black too much. The only colored thing he had were his tortoiseshell glasses. At least Nick wore white sometimes…

"Detective Chia," Andy replied.

"How're you, Mr. DiMilo?"

"The outside air smells fresher."

Chia chuckled. "I'm impressed. You spent three years in jail without betraying your colleagues."

"I have a sense of honor," Andy answered with an embarrassed grin.

"Honor?"

"A gangster's version, but honor nonetheless."

"Honor…it's good that a man has honor in this day and age. Money's the only thing that maters in this world now."

"I've promised everyone that I'm not going back into the underworld."

"Once a mobster, always a mobster, DiMilo. Still, we won't let anyone who betray you have any peace," Chia promised, from the side of the law to…the thin gray line separating both law and crime.

Andy smirked before opening the cab's door and entering the car.

"Where to?" the driver asked as he slammed the door.

"The airport."

A day later, Vice City…

The graveyard was new. It was built last year to accommodate the increasing number of dead people in Vice City. Located in the west side of Downtown, it overlooks the ocean, a peaceful backdrop to a resting ground.

It replaced the useless open areas in the southwest of the city, concrete having given way to turf and soil. Here, Tony and Christine were playing out a monthly ritual.

Christine was dressed in a simple white blouse and blue jacket, clutching a bouquet of fresh flowers. They were white tulips, Robert DiMilo's favorite. Tony was in his brown leather jacket, white shirt, and blue jeans. A lighted cigarette was clutched between his teeth.

Christine was in front of her husband's father's gravestone, kneeling down. She placed the flowers on the ground, a mark of respect for a man who lost it in his former occupation.

Tony was staring out at the sea, absorbed in his own thoughts. The lighted cigarette in his mouth helped his concentration, but not by much. Still, it was always better to have something that helps in stress relief.

Damn Andy. Thanks to him, the old man's dead…Shit! Where the hell's he? If he came back, and the two of them meet, their shared blood won't make any difference. That son of a bitch! No man would cause his father to die. SON OF A BITCH!

"Tony?" Chris whispered.

Tony blinked. He didn't realize that his face was contorted into a snarl.

"Are you all right?"

"It's nothing."

Later…

It was raining. A freak thunderstorm had come in from Cuba, bringing chaotic rains and wild winds. It wasn't a hurricane, but almost. The night sky only added to the storm's rage, almost that of Heaven.

Christine and Tony were in a Vice City Cab, listening to the rhythm of the rain, hearing it pattering on the roof. The taxi driver couldn't care less about what they did, or what they were thinking.

Andy was standing in the rain, waiting for a taxi along the road. Streetlamps threw a sorrowful orange glow across the street, weeping with the rain. How did things get so bad…? His career wasn't meant to end like this. Why the hell did he have to get caught? Hell, he had nothing of worth. Hell, he didn't even have an umbrella with him! Shit.

The taxi drove on through the night, its headlights catching whatever litter in its path. Tony leaned back, watching the shadows. He turned right, seeing…what the hell!

"Stop the car!" he ordered.

Andy turned right, hearing the taxi approach. He saw who was in the passenger seats at the back.

No way.

The taxi's wheels screeched a long protest as they gripped the road, burning off some rubber. The car came to a stop on the side of the road opposite Andy. Tony opened the door, and stepped out into the rain.

"Tony?" Chris asked. Her husband didn't reply, instead clenching his hands into fists of rage.

Andy saw Tony leave the taxi, barely even looking left or right to look for any oncoming traffic. There wasn't, of course, not in this storm. No one but people like he would go about in weather like this. He smiled.

That son of a bitch actually _smiled!_ He dared to _smile! _Damn him! DAMN HIM! Tony's face became a passive stone mask, revealing nothing. He marched up to his brother, a time bomb ready to explode.

When he reached Andy, the first thing Tony did was to land a haymaker on his brother's jaw, sending him reeling backwards into the rain. _This is for real, and thank you for the advice!_ Tony followed with a brutal left straight that slammed into his brother's solar plexus and knocked the wind out of him. A savage right uppercut to the chin sent a spray of spit into the night air, and caused Andy to fall over backwards. He landed on the soaked ground.

"Stop fighting!" Chris cried. She had exited the cab, and was standing away from the men, an open umbrella in her hands.

"Don't let me see you again!" Tony roared. He spit on his brother before turning away.

Andy lay dazed on the street as the taxi sped off into the night; its fading taillights hope draining away. He knew perfectly well why his brother had beaten him up. He had deserved it. That thought was as devastating as an ill-deserved shot to the heart, confirming his worst nightmares. Tony knew he was ex-Mafia. He had to know.

Shit.

The next day…

The City Cab Service was new, having been established last year. It was located in Little Haiti, a replacement of some of the slums there. It was a modest single-storey building not unlike Kaufman Cabs. In fact, though neither company knew, the architect that designed Kaufman Cab's building had used its blueprints as a base for the CCS building. The only difference was the manager's office at the back of the first floor.

Andy walked in, noting everything. He had a manila envelope in his hands, containing a letter of recommendation from a friend of a friend of someone in the Mob who owed him a favor. Two white and red-painted cabs were at both broad ends of the garage with the hoods open. Each cab had a man looking into the engine compartment, as though fiddling with something. A few other men were helping those men out, ferrying tools as needed.

He walked past the men, who noticed him and quickly formed a circle behind him, watching the newcomer.

"I'm looking for the manager," he asked of them.

A man stepped forward.

"There's none. I'm in charge. My name is Roger Johnson."

He was about Andy's height, maybe minus an inch. He had short, close-cropped black hair and eyes the color of the sky. He also had a particularly sharp chin, and a nose that was broken at least twice. There was a scar on his right cheek.

"I'm here to look for a job."

"Any recent job experience in VC?"

"I was abroad for three years, I'm afraid."

"If you were in jail, then say so."

Andy's heart sank.

"Well…I've a letter of recommendation from a friend."

He passed the manila envelope over to Roger. He took the envelope, but didn't inspect its contents.

"Y'know...everyone here's an ex-con. Hell, I set this place up so that I can give ex-cons a job. I only employ ex-cons because I'm one. So, what're you so afraid of?"

Andy almost sighed out loud.

"Do I get the job?" Andy asked, almost too eagerly.

"Yes. Can't be helped. I've got to accept you, since my friend said so."

Andy figured that the letter was little more than a formality, but he didn't say it out loud.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"Andrew DiMilo."

The man turned to address the others.

"Boys, this here's Andy! He's new, so show him the ropes"

All of the ex-cons cracked grins, breaking the tension. They walked up to him, and exchanged greetings and handshakes, along with sharing a little about themselves.

"All right, enough talk! Back to work!"

"Yes boss," they replied collectively, before returning to work.

"Thank you," Andy said.

"Don't thank me."

Six months later…

It had been a pleasant six months. Andy figured that he would make a decent taxi driver, earning about two thousand bucks a month. He was now living in a rented apartment in Washington Beach, and perfectly respectable at that. Hell, he might even be free of the Mafia.

He drove around Washington Beach, picking up and dropping off his fares for three straight hours. By then, he was free to take a break. He stopped at the street opposite 1102 Washington Street.

Exiting his car, he took a glance at the house.

Tommy Vercetti had bought it some time last year, and was now using it as an alternate home in case the Vercetti Estate was compromised. It was comfortable enough to be used as a house for his higher-ranking lieutenants to live in. In fact, though Andy didn't know, Mike was staying there.

Andy saw a man dressed in dirty green overalls leave the house, carrying two pails; one in each hand, and a cloth was draped around the handles of the pails. He was walking with a pronounced limp, as though his right kneecap was shot away, and his posture was that of a defeated man who would never surrender. He took a closer look at his face.

What the hell? Nick!

Nick limped over to a car parked on the pavement. It was a Washington, painted iceberg white. He went to the left pail, and dipped its cloth into its contents, before removing it, wringing it dry, and running it over the car.

Nick's a car washer!

After soaping the car's exterior, Andy took the right pail and used its cloth to soak up part of its contents. Then, he wiped the car clean.

What the hell!

There was movement in front of he. Andy turned, looking at the entrance of the house.

Mike was there, dressed in an all-white ensemble, except for a pair of sunglasses. Ten bodyguards, all wearing business suits and shades surrounded him, probably for show and to take any bullets.

Mike's the boss now?

Mike's procession made its way over to Nick, arriving just as he was done. Nick stepped aside, his face devoid of emotion. Mike walked over to the car, and extracted his wallet. He pulled out a pair of dollar bills from it, and dropped it at Nick's feet.

"For your service," Mike muttered before entering the car, followed by three of his bodyguards. One of them took the driver's seat. Half a minute later, the car drove away, and Nick turned around, walking off. He kept his back to the car, hardly bothering to look behind him.

Andy jumped into his taxi, and followed Nick.

Later…

Nick walked around Washington Beach, buying a few essentials, not noticing his ex-partner in crime. His final stop was to buy lunch before limping off into a garage owned by Tommy Vercetti.

Nick entered the garage, his makeshift home and workplace. The concrete floor was dirty, covered in grime and dust so thick he had to scrub it twice a day. Cardboard boxes were stacked around the area, full of supplies. Discarded newspapers were also stacked, and readied for re-selling. A solitary mattress and a chair on the far right end of the room were his only other possessions.

Andy stopped several feet away from the garage, and left the car. Poor Nick.

He entered the garage, seeing boxes and newspapers stacked along the walls. He noted a particular section of wall that appeared to have been cordoned off by a line of boxes that terminated in the middle of room. Andy walked over to it, and rounded the corner.

Nick was sitting on a chair, eating a taco from a box. A dirty mattress was on his right, so old that it was impossible to tell its true color.

"Hello Nick."

Both men stared at each other for a millisecond. Then, Nick dropped the box to the floor. Its contents didn't bounce out, fortunately.

"ANDY!" Nick cried, standing up.

"Don't tell me you're that down," Andy said.

Nick merely extended his hand. Andy grasped it and they embraced in the way only men who had seen death together could. After an eternity, they parted.

"Nick…even without your leg, I have to repay your kindness."

Andy had heard about the shootout in prison, and the rumors were that Nick had been shot in the leg. The rumors were true after all.

"I asked for it," Nick replied, a smile on his face.

"Can you walk on your crippled leg?"

"The doc had to place some sort of metal brace on it. I can't bend my leg, but I can walk on it."

"Good. I didn't see you for 3 years, and yet you're still so fit."

"Yeah, you know how things are. It's not our world now."

"What do you mean?"

"Mike took over from Pete after manipulating everyone to get to the top. Tommy's in NYC to take care of some problems from a gang who's attacking his network, and only Mike reports to him, so he doesn't know the truth about things over here. He turned me, a frickin' Made Man who killed and bled for the Outfit, into a frickin' car washer! I've been waiting for three years for revenge! Come with me! Together, we can right everything, and take control!" Nick ejaculated, pausing to breathe deeply, refilling his depleted lungs.

Andy thought about it. If he accepted…Nick might have his revenge. Andy might well take over from Pete, and be Tommy Vercetti's second-in-command. They'll get their status back, become respected Made Men again.

But at what cost? Only his honor. He had told everyone that he would not go back into the underworld after his last deal. He wouldn't break his word. He was an honorable man, dammit, and he'll be damned if he'll break his word. A man may live with neither fame nor fortune, but he is less than a man without honor.

No, he decided. He won't follow Nick.

Andy shook his head sadly, but firmly.

"No, Nick. I won't. I'm sorry."

Author's Note: I'm back! Let's see…Detective Chia's in the previous chapter; I added a new scene to it. This chapter has the least number of modifications. The scene outside the prison was set in Taipei, not Florida. Mike's counterpart was leaving his office, and in the garage scene, Nick's counterpart was eating what is known as 'economy rice' in my country. Think a Styrofoam box filled with rice and two-four selections of vegetables and/or meat. Otherwise, the rest of the changes are mostly dialogue…for example, the conversation about honor, and Andy asking after Nick's leg. This isn't the end, not even half of it.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: A Question of Brotherhood 

Vice Point Police Station

"I'm afraid I can't grant you leave," the police captain pronounced.

He wasn't a particularly extraordinary person, except for his thick glasses and mole in between his eyes. He had a pair of blue eyes speckled with grey, and a voice of liquid silk.

"Why?" Tony demanded.

The two of them were in the police captain's office, a 4 by 4 feet room meant for the exclusive use of Police Captain Jonathan Burrows, Jr. The Florida state flag stood at the far right corner of the room. The Old Glory was at the far left. A heavy, expensive oak desk was in the middle of the room, behind which was a brown leather swivel chair. A mountain of reports was arranged neatly on the right side of the desk, while a white plastic telephone was on the left.

"Your brother. Three years ago, he was sent to jail. For six months after his release, we've lost all track of him. Yesterday, he reappeared. One of our informants spotted him visiting one Nicholas Caruso, former Made Man, now a disgraced handyman for the local Mob. Caruso still has ties to the Mafia, though, and despite his crippled leg; he still wants his old job back. Because of that, I want you to check on your brother."

Burrows leaned forward, grasping both hands together, and stared intently into Tony's eyes.

"Look, Tony. Now, we're going to be very harsh on the criminal underworld. The new police chief is concerned with the current rise in crime, especially that of the organized variety. Rumor has it that the FBI's Organized Crime department's gonna come here to assist in a possible crackdown.

"We need people to investigate the Vercetti gang, and you're not the only one. We need you to check on your brother. We think he's a big shot in this city-"

"I didn't know my brother is in this line of work!" Tony screamed, banging both of his fists hard on the table. The captain winced.

"I know. Don't let that fact interfere in this case. According to an informant, there may be something going on tonight at the Malibu…"

"Yeah, fine."

Tony stood up, and walked out.

Burrows shook his head. He knew why Tony was so edgy these days. The problem was, this guy was stupid enough not to see a shrink or something, or even tell anybody his problems. If only this shit didn't have to happen. And, thanks to that hardass police chief, Tony's never going to get a rank higher than Inspector. Stupid idiot. Why can't that stubborn SOB see that just because Tony's brother is, hell, _may be_, Mafia, it doesn't mean that Tony ain't a hardworking, competent cop! Hell, Tony's slated for promotion…three years ago! That dimwit chief hasn't approved Tony's promotion despite all the evidence staring at him in the face!

The captain shook his head, and opened a desk drawer, extracting a roll of aspirin. He popped two of them in his mouth, wondering how the hell the VCPD ever became so…_stupid_.

The Malibu, later that night

The more things change, the more they stay the same. The Malibu had been renovated again, but it was still of the same design as the last time. The only real difference was that the electrical system had been replaced with something more modern, and a DJ station had been added.

Tony walked in, dressed like a typical clubber: colorful T-shirt, blue jeans, blue sneakers, deliberately to attract attention, causing people to ignore him. He also had a leather bomber jacket, which concealed his S & W Model 19 in its small-of-the-back holster.

The party was getting started. The dance floor was warming up, with disco lights playing around the area. People gathered on the dance floor, all youths. The stage was unoccupied, for some strange reason. The DJ took his place at his station, built next to the dance floor. Brand-new speakers built into the walls boomed pop music, the latest craze in music.

Tony walked around the dance floor, avoiding the waitresses and tables in the dim colored light. Making his way to the bar, he grabbed a seat.

"What'll you have, sir?" the bartender asked, a middle-aged man with a slight paunch and broad smile. The other one was off-duty today.

"A Guinness Stout, nothing extra, thank you."

"Gotcha."

The bartender turned around, and reached for the appropriate drinks.

Tony looked around, and spotted…

The boss was right. Dammit. What the hell is Andy doing there!

Andy was sitting at a private table in the corner. Next to him was Nick, dressed in his greasy green overalls. Opposite him were Mike and a bodyguard. Nick did not care to hide the hostility in his eyes. As a concession, the former Made Men kept their backs to the corner while the boss and his lackey had to have their backs facing the door, exposing them to attack. Not that it'll matter: Mike would have his men infiltrate the nightclub and guard it long before his arrival.

Each man had placed his preferred drink on the round table. Nick had a full glass of brandy, with an almost-empty brandy bottle next to his glass. Andy settled on Jim Beam with ice. Mike preferred red wine, in this case some fancy French brand dating back to 1962 or so. The bodyguard was not a drinker.

"Andy, how come you didn't tell me you're out of jail?" Mike asked, an alcohol-induced glint in his eye.

"We were in the same boat the last time, you know," he continued.

Andy merely nodded. Mike had found him, and sent a representative to invite Andy for a drink. Refusal equals suicide.

"Anyways, since Tommy Vercetti is in New York, I'm the new boss around here. How are you doing?" Mike asked, behind a smile as genuine as the counterfeits his boss produces.

"Very well, thank you," Andy replied, his voice neutral. Nick put the glass to his lips, and bit the glass walls with his teeth. He tilted his head back, allowing the brandy to flow into his mouth. He sloshed it around as he lowered his head, holding the glass with his teeth, keeping his hands folded across his chest. He swallowed the brandy as the glass touched the table, feeling a warm sensation spread through his body.

Mike produced a cigarette from somewhere, lit it with a gold-plated lighter and placed the coffin nail in his mouth. Nick refilled his glass with the remaining amount of brandy in the bottle.

"If you need anything, just call me, and you'll get it…Nick, need another drink?" Mike asked.

"Wait," Nick answered, a grim smile playing across his lips.

Nick swung his crippled leg up, bringing it up onto the table. It landed with a metallic _thunk_, causing the liquid inside the other glasses to shift around. He raised his glass of brandy over his right leg.

"For the leg!" he toasted, before proceeding to pour the brandy in his glass over it. He poured the brandy expertly, without wasting a single drop on the table. When he was done, he returned his alcohol-soaked leg to its previous position. The glass banged on the table, courtesy of a calculated slip by Nick.

"Andy, if you're free, come over to my place," Mike whispered.

"I'm not interested."

Andy had spent three years trying to distance himself away from organized crime, and he's finally succeeded. No way he's going to go back into the Mob, give up all the progress he's made. No way.

"You're sure to like it," Mike pleaded, a final attempt.

"No."

"Fine, then. I'm going to the gents. Your next round's on me," Mike concluded. He and his bodyguard left the table.

Tony had seen enough. He had been nursing his drink all this while, waiting for a chance. He took it.

Walking up to Andy's table, his face became a stone mask. Nick saw him coming. That guy had 'cop' written all over him. One could see it in the way he walks; he keeps his hands near him and walks on the balls of his feet, poised for an immediate confrontation. Andy looked at Tony.

Anthony Tate faced his brother.

"Outside."

Andy stood up, and followed his brother. Half a minute later, Nick got up from his seat.

The brothers headed for the parking lots next to the club. They were empty of all life, and empty of any vehicles. The chain-link fence defining it was backed by metal walls as tall as the fence, isolating the parking lots to the world outside.

The night sky grew darker as the men entered. Black clouds rolled overhead, but did not gather. There was no rain scheduled for today, not yet. The men headed for the right side of the parking lots.

"Spread eagle against the wall, now!" Tony ordered, all cop.

Nick complied, placing his palms on the metal walls and leaning forward, placing pressure on his palms. His legs were placed behind his body, making his current position difficult to move out of.

Tony patted Andy's sleeves, finding nothing.

"What did you discuss?" Tony barked.

"Rubbish."

"Bullshit."

Tony started on the front of Andy's shirt, feeling around the neck area and finding nothing.

"Really!" Andy replied, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. Why won't he believe him?

"Which gang are you working for?"

Tony started patting down Andy's chest and abdomen.

"None of them."

"What illegal businesses does Tommy Vercetti own?"

"I don't know! Why don't you ask him?"

Tony started work on Andy's trousers, his previous search having yielded nothing.

"Why don't you know!"

"Tony-"

"Don't call me 'Tony'! Call me 'sir'!"

"Sir. I've quit the Outfit."

"Where do you work?"

"City Cab Service."

Tony stood up, having found nothing. Of course. Andy won't be that stupid, but procedure is still procedure, and one never knows what one may find.

"What's your address?"

"The apartment building at the corner of 23rd Street and Price Avenue, 3rd floor, apartment number 23."

"Hey," Nick called from the parking lot's entrance. He had seen everything, and was sick of it. He walked up to Tony, his body language calculated to be aggressive.

"What do you think you're doing? He's your brother! He ain't a gangster, man, and damn sure no criminal!" Nick spat, pointing his left index finger at Tony and pulling his right hand back. Tony took this for a threatening act and drew his revolver, going to the Weaver stance he was trained to perform.

Nick saw the gaping hole that was the revolver's muzzle right in front of his face, and his face became contorted into a furious mask. He would never, EVER, let ANYONE point a gun in his face, never again! Definitely not this son-of-a-bitching cop who can't tell the difference between a gangster and an ex-gangster! He reached out, grabbed the revolver with his right hand, and placed the muzzle on his chest.

"Don't point a gun at my head! If you must, aim at my chest, but not the face!" he yelled. "Go on, cop! Shoot me!"

Nick was six feet tall, taller than Tony by two inches. Both men stared into each other's eyes, willing the other to blink in this game of life and death.

A second passed. The inspector relented, finally, pulling his revolver towards his body. Nick released the barrel, allowing the inspector to holster his gun. Andy stepped away from his previous position, and stared at his brother, pleading silently with his eyes.

"Tony…sir…give me a chance to prove myself!"

Tony spat.

"Because of you, I won't be promoted! You know that! Don't leave the city! I'll go after you anytime!" Tony yelled, before storming off.

Andy sighed. Jesus. Tony's not getting a promotion because of him. Because of what he was.

Tony watched the inspector disappear into the night. What the hell. Not getting promoted because of Andy, eh? Big deal! That bastard's pettier than Andy ever was! Shit!

Later, in Tony's home…

Tony stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Why did you act like that just now? Tony's mind wondered.

What do you think! That brother of mine! Shit! Some brother he is! Bastard! Why the hell can't he see the harm he's caused all of us? Bastard! BASTARD!

Tony lashed out at the mirror, needing to hit something, anything, wanting to destroy it to prove that he can, to redress his anger. It shattered under his knuckles, transforming into dozens of sharp fragments that bit and stabbed into his right hand. He winced at the pain.

Idiot!

He walked over to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and rummaged through it, removing a Band-Aid and some iodine. He walked out of the bathroom, seeing Christine waiting for him. Her eyes widened when she saw the blood and the glass.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I hit the mirror."

"Tsk, tsk…come on, let me bandage it for you."

Author's note: In the movie, this is the end of the first half. During the scene in the nightclub, everyone was drinking whiskey or something. When Tony ordered Nick out, he led him to an alleyway next to the nightclub, not a parking lot. Finally, in the movie, after smashing the mirror, the scene changes to one showing Christine's counterpart silently treating her husband's self-inflicted injury. Because this is not a movie, I had to change it…


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: No Turning Back

City Cab Service Garage

"Tea time!" Robert called.

It was 3 p.m. on a cool autumn day…what passed for autumn anyway. The morning shift was already over, but the mechanics had maintenance duties, and the drivers had paperwork to do. The garage was occupied with four taxis, plus the whole afternoon shift. The men scurried about, hoping to finish their jobs before dinner. Andy, in particular, was counting his cash and ensuring that it tallied with the meter.

Andy turned to his boss. Robert was at the far end of the garage, behind a table laden with cups of strong dark coffee and tea, along with a bag of assorted snacks. He never asked his employees to pay for them, despite their offers, and everyone generally agreed that he made the best coffee and tea in VC. Except for professional chefs, of course, but no one ever said that to his face. His head was small enough; no need to deflate it.

"Umm…hello?" a voice called from the entrance.

Andy turned, along with several others.

"Is Andy DiMilo working here?" Christine DiMilo asked.

"Yes," Andy replied, turning to her.

"Boss, may I speak to him for a while?" she asked the crowd. Robert nodded.

Andy walked up to her.

"What is it?"

"Please…for your brother's sake, please leave Vice City. He hates you right now, thinking that you were responsible for your father's death. The police and the FBI are going to crack down on organized crime very soon in VC. If you're not here, you won't get arrested."

She was right, at least about him being responsible for his father's death. If he didn't join the Mob in the first place, this wouldn't have happened. It wasn't the shooter's fault; he'd only been doing his job. The guy who ordered the hit did so only because Andy was a player, and his father can be used as leverage. If Andy hadn't been in the Mafia, his life would have been…what? Better? More like different.

But then…

"If I stay here, I can prove to him that there's no turning back for me. I want to lead a simple, honest life, okay? I've had enough of the Mafia. Hell, I've come clean; he just doesn't want to admit it."

"But…Tony still—"

"I know. I'm through being a Made Man. It's over now. He has to wake up to that fact."

"I—"

Several black Sentinels drove up to the CCS building, blocking off the entrance. Four gangsters to a car exited their vehicles, and lined up in front of the buildings. Robert walked up to Christine.

"Chris, get out of here from the back door." Andy muttered.

Before she could react, Robert grabbed her arm and led her to the back door.

"Good afternoon!" the gangsters greeted, bowing as one.

It used to be a Triad custom. Tommy Vercetti brought that over to his gang, saying that the Mafia is all about respect, and this is basic courtesy, which is related to respect.

Andy turned away to his car, looking busy for the visitors' benefit. Not that it mattered.

One of the gangsters walked up to Andy, a new-fangled cell phone in his hands. It was one of the latest models, but it still looked and resembled an oddly shaped water bottle. That was the only thing Andy could think of as the gangster approached.

"There's a call for you, from Mike. I'm sure you know which Mike," the gangster said, extending the cell phone.

Andy scowled. Now what? Hadn't he already made it clear that he didn't want to have anything to do with the Mafia?

Andy turned around, and grabbed the cell phone from the gangster's waiting hands. He brought it up to his ear.

"Andy DiMilo."

"Andy? It's me, Mike. I want to talk to ya about business in my office."

"I'm not free."

"It's about your brother."

Damn it.

"When?"

"As soon as possible. By the way, Nick's with me too."

Michael DeFrantz's Office, some time later…

Mike ran Tommy's empire out of an office building he had purchased. He had convinced Tommy that it was not a good idea to do business at home, especially since the Vercetti Estate was so grandiose. Tommy had said that if Mike wanted to while he was in charge, he could use a spare office, but Tommy Vercetti won't do that. After all, if the cops or rivals come, then let them come and to hell with them, Tommy Vercetti isn't afraid.

Mike was more sensible than that. The office building had better security than the Vercetti Estate, and it was more comfortable knowing that your subordinates know that they cannot slack or cheat on the job. The boss was watching them, after all.

Three men sat at Mike's table. Four more stood around the table, ready to react in case something went wrong.

Andy was sitting next to Nick, still dressed in his overalls. However, Nick had managed to get them dry-cleaned, and was wearing his old duster overcoat again. Mike was dressed in his best blue and white business suit, with a blue tie.

Nick reached into a pocket, and removed a cigarette, placing it between his teeth.

"Need a light?" Mike asked, holding up a gold plated lighter.

"No thanks," Nick replied, lighting the cigarette with a matchstick from another pocket. Why should he let that slimy son of a bitch do that for him? Doesn't he know of a word called 'honor'?

"Andy, Nick, I've got a proposition for you. I want the two of you back together. We can be a team, you know? Nick, you may be crippled, but I still respect you, still respect your abilities."

Nick kept himself from laughing the cigarette out of his mouth. Respect? Bullshit!

"Look. We can work together, earn millions together, hell, really take over VC. Andy, your brother's a cop, right? Can you arrange—"

"I refuse."

"Why?"

"I have honor. I know what is shame. I told everyone that the deal three years ago would be my final job! I am a man of my word! I will not break it for anything! How can I face the world if I rejoin the Mob? How can I face my _brother!_"

"Andy—"

"I'm not done yet! Nick's still my friend. You'd better show me that you mean what you said, about respecting him! Don't ever ignore him!"

Andy slammed his fists hard on the table, prompting the bodyguards to reach into their coats. Andy didn't notice, and Nick didn't care. He still liked showing an air of _sang-froid_.

"If you ever get my brother involved in the Mafia, if I hear that you reach him, I swear I'll personally come in here, personally kill everyone who stops me, and personally blow you away! Understand!" Nick screamed.

"Yes," Mike replied, cowed.

"Nick, let's go."

Nick nodded, and the two men left the office.

Mike sat in his chair. When the men left, he reached for the telephone on his desk.

Meanwhile, at VCPD HQ…

There was a similar meeting, only this time, it involved four men on the right side of the law, and were all enforcers of it. The police chief, Zachary Ames, was sitting behind his desk. His office was decorated with the Star Spangled Banner and Florida's state flags, and several boxes of paperwork took up the floor around the desk. The desk itself was clear, save for a telephone.

Ames was what people would call an OWG, Ordinary White Guy. He was so ordinary; no one would be able to pick his face out in a crowd. Before his new job, he was a chief of detectives, and he did it so well someone decided to kick him up to his current post. He didn't like the paperwork, but at least now he'd be able to do something about the plague of organized crime.

He had three visitors, one from Tallahassee, one from the Florida FBI field office, and one from the local Secret Service department.

The one from Tallahassee spoke first. He was Detective Chia, dressed in his all-black ensemble again. No one knew whether Chia had anything other than black clothing. He placed an attaché case on the desk, and opened it.

"Do you remember the Shanghai Inn slayings in Tallahassee three years ago?"

Ames nodded.

"Good. Based on our investigations, we have reason to believe that one Nicholas Caruso, currently a resident of Vice City, is responsible for the shooting, though my superiors think that it's impossible, despite how much I convince them."

Chia removed the papers in his attaché case and laid it all out on the table. They amounted to four sheets of paper, all containing information about and photographs of Nicholas Caruso, possible Made Man and definite mass murderer.

"I have been sent here to locate and arrest Caruso, as well as any of his accomplices in Vice City. My superiors have told you this last week, no? Since he is a suspected member of the Vercetti gang, and that my case overlaps with this, I have been told to cooperate with you as much as I can."

Ames nodded, and extended his hand. As far as he knew, Chia was the ideal, everything a cop could be. His success rate was the highest of all the detectives in the Tallahassee PD, and he once turned down a bribe attempt by the local Mafia…then immediately arrested the man sent to bribe him. That guy was locked away; Chia made sure that he had witnesses to watch the 'deal', and a covert tape recorder to record the conversation. He was one sneaky son of a bitch.

"Good to have you aboard."

"I am Richard Grant, the SAC (Special Agent in Charge) of the Florida FBI field office. We're here to help you in your crackdown, especially directed against Thomas Vercetti. My best LCN (La Cosa Nostra; the FBI does not use 'Organized Crime' officially) squad is flying in tomorrow, and they'll be at your disposal. They'll report to me, of course, and I'll brief the Director personally on this. He's taking…special interest, after Vercetti had gunned down several FBI agents and escaped. Vercetti is wanted for a number of Federal crimes, namely eighteen counts of murder of government agents, one count of bank robbery, fifty counts of larceny, twenty counts of grand larceny, and eighteen counts of conspiracy to commit Federal crimes, just to name a few. We also believe that he owns dozens of illegal firearms, but that falls under the jurisdiction of the ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms)," Grant reported from memory.

And the ATF representative called in an hour ago to say that his flight was delayed until the next day. The plane had a hydraulics leak, and there was no other available.

Grant was one of the last few men in the Federal Bureaucracy of Investigation who cared about getting things done instead of licking his superiors' boots and doing tons of paperwork that amounted to precisely nothing.

"Nice to know we finally have Federal assistance," Ames said, shaking Grant's hand. Ames had to wait for three weeks before the paperwork was finally processed.

The DC visitor spoke up. He was a black man named Carl Steele, dressed in a formal business suit. Like Ames, he had nothing that could mark him, and like Ames, soon became one of the best undercover cops in the business. Only, Steele was no ordinary cop.

"Chief Ames, Carl Steele from the United States Secret Service. I'm the guy they sent in to help you out. We know that Vercetti is forging money in an apparently deserted printing press, but we need proof of that. Once we have it, we can move in and shut the press down. We can also add multiple counts of counterfeiting and conspiracy to counterfeit money to his long list of crimes."

Pleasure to work with you, Mr. Steele," Ames said, also shaking his hand.

"Okay," Ames said, "my guys have worked out a plan, but I need your input. If we can pull it off, we can give you the whole messy package, and throw Vercetti behind bars for life…or worse. Detective Chia, don't worry so much about Caruso; I've one of my best men on his case. I'll assign the two of you to work together…if I can reach him. He's not answering my calls, probably because he's undercover right now. Anyway…here's the plan…"

Ames outlined the VCPD's next course of action. Steele, Chia, and Grant modified some aspects of the plan, commenting on it occasionally, before they were satisfied.

"Okay gentlemen. The beginning of the end starts now."

Author's note: I'm back. Sorry if it took so long and that the chapter is so short: I had important things to attend to first. As you can see, I've revised the entire story, changing names and some minor details. I've kept most of the dialogue, but I had to modify it somewhat, since the story is in America, not Hong Kong. In the movie, Andy and Mike had a private discussion somewhere in the middle. That was when Andy spoke about Nick and respect. I had to modify it, since no boss would allow himself to enter an empty conference room, with only a visitor for company. Also, an Interpol agent took the place of the FBI and USSS representatives in the movie in the final scene, and the chief didn't have a plan at that time.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Happy Birthday 

The night was young, not so young that there was still light from the sun, yet not so old that true darkness had overcome the city. Middle-class workers returned home from work, shifts started and ended, and criminals began capering in the night.

Tony didn't care, though. His unmarked Sentinel was parked opposite a Mob-run bar, called Danny's Place. The bar's clientele consisted of people from all walks of life: business executives, young clubbers, small-time criminals, and big shots from Vercetti's Outfit.

But he wasn't interested in the comings and goings of the customers. He was more interested in the alley next to the bar. That alley contained the side entrance to the bar, known to be used by Mafia couriers and lieutenants who needed to meet inside the bar for whatever reason and had to beat the crowds.

Through the window glass, he saw a pair of men, dressed in business suits and clutching open umbrellas, walk into the alley, and stop at the door. Tony grabbed the camera in his lap, and zoomed in.

The suits stood some more. A second later, the door opened, and a man stepped out. Tony started taking photographs of the faces he could see, recognizing a couple of mid-level Mob lieutenants. A bright orange lamp mounted above the door illuminated the alley, showing the faces clearly. After a brief conversation, the men entered the bar. The last man extracted a piece of paper from his pocket, crumpled it up, and threw it into a nearby garbage can.

Tony waited for a few minutes, ensuring that the area was clear. Then, he exited the car, ran across the street, and entered the alley. Looking around, he saw no one, and reached for the garbage can. He picked up, lugged it across the street, and placed it in his car before driving off.

Tony DiMilo's home, in the suburbs of Vice City…

Tony's new home was deliberately situated in the suburbs, as it had been statistically proven that there was less crime in the suburbs of VC than in the city centers. Going home always made him feel that his job was worth it.

But not today. Today, he had work to do.

He brought the garbage can into the kitchen. All around him, any number of modern appliances were set into the walls and connected to sockets, signs of progress. Tony removed the lid of the garbage can and upended it, causing its contents to spill all over the floor. Chris was in the shower, fortunately; the mere sight of the mess would shock her into silence.

Tony began the distasteful task of sifting through the trash with gloved hands, examining everything. Fortunately, there was no decaying food or other unpleasant items, but the smell alone was nauseating.

Twenty minutes later, Tony found the piece of paper. On it was typed the words 'VC Ports, 2 pm, Wednesday'. At this point, Chris entered the kitchen, seeing her husband crouching amidst a pool of rubbish. She gasped, opening her mouth in a silent scream, before rushing off.

Tony walked out of the kitchen, and grabbed the telephone mounted on the wall outside the kitchen. After dialing a specific telephone number, he brought the receiver to his ear. Chris reappeared, a handkerchief tied around her nose and mouth, and a large pair of tongs from God knows where. She disappeared into the kitchen when the phone on the other end was picked up.

"Hello?" a voice asked.

"Captain? This is Inspector DiMilo. I've completed surveillance on Danny's Place. I've found a scrap of paper with the words 'VC Ports, 2 pm, Wednesday'. I think they're planning to do something tomorrow afternoon."

"Good job. Type out the surveillance report, and hand it in to me first thing in the morning," Captain Jonathan Burrows replied.

"Captain, we have to act. We may be able to bring down Vercetti's illegal import/export business with one stroke. Let me handle it."

"Tony…you're a good cop. But you jump to conclusions too fast. No intelligent member of the Vercetti gang would do something this stupid. It's probably a ruse."

"We still have to investigate it. Give me a chance," Tony pleaded.

"No, at least without proper evidence. That piece of paper is not enough; the judge may say that you got someone to type it out for you. We can't perform a legal search. So, type out the surveillance report, and hand it in to me tomorrow."

"But—"

"Good night."

Burrows hung up, wondering what the hell Tony was doing. He was getting too reckless, too jumpy at work…hell, Ames should've given him some leave…at least he'd be recharged.

"Dammit!" Tony swore. Then, he walked over to his work desk, some distance away. His table held stacks of blank paper, some reports, a battery-operated lamp, and an electric typewriter, the kind that uses electricity to work instead of manual application of force. On the wall in front of it were photographs and certificates, of himself, of Chris, of his job. He furiously tore them all down from the wall, letting their crashes dissipate his frustration.

Meanwhile, Chris had cleared up the garbage from the floor, and removed a package from the refrigerator in the kitchen. Bringing it over to the dining room, she opened it, revealing a birthday cake, with two large candles and six smaller ones. She lit every candle with a match, and smiled inwardly.

She sat at the table, which had a clear line of sight to Tony's desk. She caught her husband typing away at his desk, and frowned. Getting up, she strode over to the light switches nearby and flicked them all off, leaving the house in darkness, the only light source being the candles.

She returned to the table, and waited.

A few seconds later, there was a snap, accompanied by a flash of light from the desk. Tony had activated the battery-powered lamp, and was using it to see and type his damn report instead of—

Chris angrily stood up, and marched over to Tony, blissfully unaware of his wife's presence.

"Tony! Have you forgotten today's my birthday!" she demanded of him.

She received a noncommittal grunt. Christine fumed, and turned around, arms crossed.

Tony stood up from his desk, reaching into his pocket and removing a small box. Walking to her, he tapped Chris lightly on the shoulder.

"Chris. Happy birthday. I didn't forget."

She turned around. Tony opened the box, revealing a pair of gold earrings, with diamond studs. They were simple, yet elegant in their simplicity. She beamed at him, instantly forgetting her anger. She hugged him tightly, and he reciprocated.

A second later, they walked over to the dining table, hand in hand. They sat down and snuggled up to each other.

"Make a wish," Tony whispered.

She closed her eyes, and did just that. Then, she opened them, and blew the candles out in one breath. Tony kissed her on the cheek, inhaling her scent: a light, yet heady, sweet feminine fragrance that intoxicated him deeply.

"What did you wish for?" he asked.

"I won't tell."

"Please?"

"You'll get angry," she answered with a small smile.

"Just tell me," he replied, a hint of persistence creeping into his voice.

"Well…I want you and Andy to patch up."

A moment of silence followed, as Tony's brain caught up with his ears.

"What!" he exclaimed, his face contorting into a snarl.

Grabbing his face, she kissed him deeply on the lips, and his anger melted away. He returned the kiss, letting everything he felt about Chris flow through and into her mind with that one action.

The doorbell rang. Christine broke away, and walked to the wooden door. Unlocking it, she swung it open.

"Yes?" she asked.

Andy was standing at the door, clad in a brown aviator's jacket, brown shirt, and blue denim jeans.

"Hello, Chris."

She remained frozen, stunned by his appearance.

"I want to talk to Tony," Andy continued.

Christine regained her composure, and brought him to the door. Telling him to stay outside, she walked into her home. Tony looked up at her.

"Who is it?"

"Promise me you won't get angry."

"…Okay," he replied, nodding.

Chris smiled, and let Andy in.

Andy walked over to his shocked brother, and smiled.

"Hello, Tony."

Tony scowled, stood up, and walked over to his desk. He rummaged through its drawers, found a packet of cigarettes, and lit one up, facing away from Andy.

"Today's your birthday?" Andy asked. Christine nodded.

"Ignore him!" Tony shouted.

Andy walked over to Tony, his mouth set.

"Tony, I don't care what you think of me, but I have to pass you a warning. Michael DeFrantz is in charge of Tommy Vercetti's gang here while Vercetti is in New York. He wants to neutralize the police force, and is specifically targeting you. If he won't bribe you, he'll target you. You must be very careful these days, Tony."

Tony stood up and walked even further away from Andy. Who was a gangster to tell him how to live his life? Shit, not even a gangster, he's worse than that. He killed his own father!

"Trust me!" Andy cried.

"No," Tony coldly rejected.

"Tony—"

"LEAVE!"

Andy sighed, and left the room, wishing Christine a good night. He walked out of the house, and back into the city.

"Tony, can't you give him a chance?" Chris demanded.

He turned to face her.

"Chris, because of him, my dad died! He killed him, even though he didn't pull the trigger, you understand? Can you trust a guy like him? I'm a cop; he's a criminal, and the two of us go our own ways! We have chosen a road for ourselves, and they will meet only when I arrest him!"

"Tony, please…"

He didn't listen. He was too busy thinking of what to do.

Author's Note: Again, I apologize for this chapter's shortness, but there's no way to fit in the next scene and still end it properly. I have plenty of homework, I need to study for tests, exams, and prepare for my 'O' levels this year…and I still have to help out with the NCC. That leaves me little time for writing…and I'm working on multiple stories at once. I hope you can understand. Okay, most of what happened is taken from the movie. Of course, there are other changes, notably Tony's conversation with the captain, several changes in dialogue, and Tony's extended final speech.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Resolve 

"So you know what to do, right?" the man asked.

His only reply was a grunt from the shooter next to him.

The two of them were in a blue Washington, parked outside the Vice City docks. The first man was a low-level Mob soldier who really didn't want to be here. He was dressed in a clean-cut blue business suit, which was starting to feel uncomfortable despite the air-conditioning. The other was dressed in his trademark black leather jacket, white shirt, and brown cargo pants. A Beretta M9 lay nestled in his hands, with its safety on. His finger was on the trigger, in the mistaken belief that it was okay to do so as long as the safety was on.

"Okay…so let's just wait…"

The shooter leaned back in his seat, trying to relax. Here he was, on 'vacation' in Vice City, and a job had to come up. He had decided to take a short break from the gang violence in Liberty City, and ended up here. Then, Mike called him, and hired him.

Well. All the crimes he had committed were simply for the money, after all. He had blazed a path across the country, earning a million dollars in every city he had stopped at before leaving, eventually ending up in VC, with a countless number of dead men and women behind him.

Mike didn't really have to hire him. It was so damn easy that calling up a person of his skills seemed…ridiculous. Ah, well, he was getting paid for this, so who gave a shit?

"Hey! Here he is!" the soldier exclaimed, a little too loudly for the leather-jacketed man. He looked up. A blue Sentinel drove past the mobsters and into the ports.

"Okay! Go! And for crying out loud, don't—" the gangster squealed.

The hired killer left the car before the soldier could finish. Pocketing his pistol, he walked into the Vice City Docks.

Tony pulled his car up a few yards from the supposed meet. He didn't have his duty pistol with him, no shoulder weapon, just his faithful S & W Model 19. He didn't call for backup either. After all, nobody would believe him unless he caught all of them in the act.

The inspector reached for his revolver, pulling it out in anticipation of a gunfight. He kept his finger off the trigger, and his weapon at low carry. In front of him were several cargo containers, each several feet high, blocking his view of the pier. Frowning, he walked towards the cargo containers. Arriving at them, he took a quick peek around, seeing nothing of interest. Then, he walked past the container in front of him, and turned left, going deeper into the ports.

The man in the leather jacket saw his quarry enter the docks. He ran forward, quickly but silently, drawing his pistol and flicking off the safety.

Tony moved deeper and deeper into the ports, wending his way through the maze of containers. The dockworkers evidently had no sense of organization; there was no logical arrangement to the containers. The inspector kept his revolver close to him, his finger still off the trigger.

The killer tracked the inspector, following his footsteps. Where he lost sight of Tony or couldn't hear him, he guessed, heading towards the docks. Only the hunt mattered now, and he was the hunter. The men traveled on parallel courses, occasionally intersecting. Then, it was time.

Tony finally made his way through the maze, and at the docks. Raising his weapon, he scanned and breathed, seeing…

_Nothing!_

The man in the leather jacket was behind Tony, smoothly raising his Beretta so quickly that his hands were almost a blur. He instinctively aimed at Tony's chest, before remembering his mission. He adjusted his aim low and to the right, before squeezing the trigger.

The bullet entered Tony's right arm, tearing a long hole through his flesh. Tony shouted in surprise and pain, going down. His revolver fell from his hand, clattering on the ground. Another shot echoed through the docks, a bullet hole appearing an inch above the previous wound. Red blood spurted out of the holes, forming a pool of scarlet.

The shooter brought his pistol up, next to his face in the classic and erroneous high carry stance, and walked away.

_Job passed_, he thought.

Later in Vice City…

Andy leaned back into his cab's leather seat. It was a busy day; he had only been working for three hours and he had already picked up and delivered five people to wherever. His knowledge of the side streets of VC had helped him to no end, allowing him to take his fares to their destinations faster than expected. He had already earned fifty dollars in tips already, in addition to his fares… Well, he could get used to this sort of life. If only Mike would leave him alone, and if only Tony would—

An electronic trilling disrupted his thoughts. It was emitted from a car-mounted telephone, installed just under the meter in the dashboard. The man picked it up, bringing it to his ear.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Is this Andrew DiMilo?" a tired-sounding male voice enquired.

"Yes…may I help you?"

"I'm Doctor Steven O'Toole at Vice City General Hospital. Your brother has just been shot."

A second passed.

A lifetime went by.

"WHAT!"

Andy arrived at the hospital ten minutes later, breaking just about every speed limit on the way. Incredibly, the VCPD traffic cops were elsewhere as he broke the law multiple times. Maybe that was why there were so many unseen traffic violations, he decided grimly.

Bursting through the entrance, he came face-to-face with a female nurse.

"Where's the ER?" he asked, almost shouting.

The nurse pointed the way, and he rushed off without a word of thanks or acknowledgement. Time seemed to slow down, as though someone wanted him to experience every nanosecond of agony to the fullest. Every step seemed to take a lifetime to complete, and every inch felt like a mile. But, Andy traversed the distance fairly quickly, and found himself outside the Emergency Room in short order.

Only to find a pair of uniformed cops standing guard outside the door. Striding towards the door, he tried to enter, only to be forced back by the police officers.

"How's my brother?" he demanded.

"Sorry sir, you're not allowed in," the nearest of the two coldly replied.

"Let him in," a firm voice ordered from behind Andy.

Turning around, the ex-con saw a man dressed in street clothes. On first glance, he was just a normal civilian. However, Andy knew his type: he was a plainclothes detective, maybe even an inspector...or maybe just an off-duty police officer who was recalled. Then, he caught sight of a police ID card hanging on a loop around his neck. It read: 'CAPTAIN J. BURROWS'.

The cops parted, letting Andy through. Both ex-criminal and lawman entered the ER.

They beheld Tony lying on the operating table, heavily anaesthetized. Wires snaked out from electrodes on his body, terminating at electronic devices whose use neither man knew about, except for the ECG. The electrocardiogram showed a strong, steady pulse, though the amount of blood on the floor and operating table belied that.

A team of surgeons surrounded Tony, working to repair his damaged arm. They were all dressed in surgical greens, working as delicately as possible. At a corner, Christine Graham DiMilo held her husband's left hand, weeping silently.

Burrows placed a hand on DiMilo's shoulder.

"The police needs your cooperation. You'll be called up anytime for an interview. Just for your information."

Nighttime, on the roof of the Cherry Poppers Ice Cream Factory…

Nick wondered why the hell he had been so stupid. Mike had 'invited' him for a 'chitchat' on the roof of the Cherry Poppers factory…the facility that actually processed the drugs. After all, he thought that Mike would want to re-invite him into the Mob. Sure, he could not refuse the offer, but now, Mike's goons were beating the living shit out of him.

Like, now.

His right cheek exploded into white pain as an iron bar collided into it. Blood streamed down from his nose and a laceration on the left side of his head. His face was contorted into varying shades of red, black, blue, and purple. The green overalls he was wearing was caked with his blood and grime.

Nick got up, recovering from the vicious blow. He stared at Michael DeFrantz, right in front of him. To Nick's sides were Mike's bodyguards, wielding heavy iron bars. Behind him was the edge of the roof, leading to a long, fatal drop down to the busy street below.

Another strike to his guts knocked the wind out of Nick, causing blood to spray from his mouth and nose. He gasped in pain, just as another goon landed a blow on his back, slamming him to the ground.

Nick picked himself up once more. He was a Made Man, dammit! Why the hell are they doing this to him? Why the hell was he even allowing them to do this to him? Why the hell couldn't he fight back, at least? He'd rather fight them than get beaten up this bad!

That was when he remembered that he was crippled and unarmed, while the gangsters were fit and packing guns under their expensive business suits.

Shit.

Mike sauntered up to him, an air of arrogance surrounding him. Reaching for his silk tie, he used it to gently dab the blood from Nick's face. Nick recoiled a little as the material stung his wounds.

"Nick, do you think you're a hero? If you are, jump!" Mike challenged.

Nick turned around, looking over his shoulder. His entire body was burning and stinging, calling for rest and repair. The cars on the street passed by at high speed, their rear and headlights leaving trails of color in the night. The road was bathed in an amber glow, waiting to illuminate a shattered, bloodied body.

No, he could not jump. That bastard would _want_ him to jump. Besides, heroes never kill themselves to make others happy. Nick turned to face Mike, silently promising that he would get through this ordeal…and make him pay. Big-time. Nick's face contorted into a grim smile, promising of vengeance.

Nick straightened himself, keeping his thoughts of vengeance masked behind a stoic face.

"Hah! Knew it. Nick, Nick, Nick…how many times must I say this? If Andy doesn't want to join, we don't need to give you face…or even need you." Mike said, shaking his head.

Mike threw his first punch of the night, landing it on Nick's nose. It didn't break, but some blood vessels were severed, and more blood was released over his fist. Mike unleashed a left uppercut that connected solidly with Nick's chin, knocking him out.

As Nick fell, he heard Mike say, "Take him to UCS."

United Cab Service HQ, later that night…

The day shift had returned, and was now maintaining their cabs in the garage. The eight drivers and mechanics of the shift were scattered around the area, tending to their vehicles or just chatting away, relaxing after a hard day's work.

Roger Johnson was doing some paperwork at a desk, in plain view of the entrance, when something told him he should look outside, like right the hell now.

Looking up, he saw four black Sentinels race up to the building before coming to a screeching halt. The rear doors of the third car opened, and a body was kicked out. It hit the hard floor, rolled for a few feet, and came to a halt just at the entrance.

"What the hell?" the nearest mechanic asked rhetorically.

As if on cue, the doors of the other Sentinels burst open. Four men per car stepped out at the same time. They advanced upon the building.

"Who the hell are you?" another driver asked.

The men, dressed in dark business suits, stopped just outside the business.

"Mr. DeFrantz sends his regards, courtesy of Mr. Vercetti. Tell Andrew DiMilo to talk to the boss…if he's brave enough. C'mon, guys!" their leader shouted.

"Shit!" Johnson swore.

The Mafia goons rushed into the building, extracting saps, axes, knives and clubs from their coats, and brandishing brass knuckles. They fanned out as they entered, and used their weapons to destroy whatever property they could get their hands on. A table shattered under the pressure of several axe blades. A cab's windshield was shattered into hundreds of glass fragments, its tires punctured. A chair was converted into firewood.

The ex-convicts looked on, stunned, before the experiences of their previous lives kicked up. Picking up tools for want of weapons, the drivers charged at DeFrantz's subordinates.

Both sides clashed. The end result was a brawl as ugly as a knife fight in a bar. An axe-wielding Mafia criminal engaged a driver, but before he could do anything, the ex-con slammed his spanner into the goon's head, knocking him out. A mechanic received multiple punches from a Mafia man wearing brass knuckles, resulting in massive internal bleeding. A pair of criminals double-teamed a driver with saps, breaking several ribs before he got up and fought them off. Another Mafia man was ambushed by a driver who crashed his tire-iron into his neck. He fell, unconscious.

Roger Johnson tried to cease the fight, but was pounced upon by another Mafia soldier. The two of them grappled with each other on the ground, both men struggling to gain the advantage. They wrestled with each other, with Roger eventually getting on top. He spit into the criminal's eye, causing enough pain to cause him to disengage and cover it, screaming all the way.

Andy DiMilo returned to the UCS building in his cab just in time to watch the fight develop. He jammed the brakes outside the building, opened the door, and virtually flew towards the fighters.

"Sop fighting! Stop fighting!" he screamed.

Roger got up, and shouted, "STOP FIGHTING, DAMMIT!"

The Mafia leader turned, looked into Andy's face from his position, and sneered.

"The boss wants you to have a chat with him…if you're brave enough," he added.

"Okay."

"Good."

The leader stood up, a little disappointed that Andy didn't put up a fight…but what the hell, his job was done.

"GUYS! Let's go! We're done here!" he shouted.

The Mafia soldiers disengaged themselves and fled, dragging away the injured and the unconscious.

"What the hell did you fight them for? They were just following orders! Now we're asking for it!" Roger reprimanded his employees.

"Sorry boss…" they apologized.

Meanwhile, Andy ran over to the body. He saw that it was dressed in green overalls…like Nick's…and was covered in blood…! Turning him over, Andy examined Nick. He was unconscious, and he looked like hell, but he was still breathing.

"I'm going to get Nick out of here!" Andy called.

"Okay!"

Chia waited patiently opposite the UCS building in an unmarked car, at a street junction. Next to him was Captain Burrows, who had volunteered to drive him around. Both men had seen the fight, had seen everything. Chia figured that since the fight was over, Andy and Nick would try to leave as soon as possible.

And when they did…the police would get the answers to some very interesting questions.

Suddenly, the men heard a car engine activate. A few seconds later, a taxi shot out of the entrance of the building, and turned right towards the cops.

"Go!" the Chinese-American urged.

The captain complied, pressing hard on the accelerator, angling the car towards the taxi. Before the driver could react, the cop had caused a controlled crash, colliding into the cab and bringing it to a stop, in the process causing the hood to buckle. Both police officers jerked hard in their seats, but their seatbelts prevented them from flying out of the windscreen. The driver, too, was wearing a seatbelt, and was saved from further injury.

Both cops leapt out of their seats and out of the cars, drawing their service pistols and pointing them at the driver, whose face was illuminated in the glow of the unmarked car's single surviving headlight.

"POLICE! Hands up! Hands up!" the Inspector bellowed.

"VCPD! Show me your hands!" the police Captain added.

The driver raised his hands in surrender almost immediately. They looked at him, realizing that—

"He ain't DiMilo!" the captain announced.

The lights also illuminated the interior of the taxi…which was empty.

"And Caruso's missing!" Chia declared.

"Hey, cops, what gives?" the driver asked, smiling inwardly to himself.

While the captain tended to the driver, Chia scanned the roads to his left. Another taxi materialized, and drove rapidly away from the building. It was too dark to take note of the license plate, and it would take too long to go after the taxi. A nagging suspicion raised its ugly head within his mind.

"Damn! They got away," Chia muttered.

The multi-storey parking lot at Washington Heights, later that night…

Andy had driven Nick to the top floor of the empty parking lot. By then, Nick had regained consciousness. Both men stood outside their car in the middle of the empty parking lot, looking around.

Vice City's buildings were defined by pretty white and neon signs, adding vibrancy and life to the area. The Washington Heights shopping centre, too, was well lit, adding more colors to the light show. The hotels in the south of VC, too, made their presence known, with the lights of their helipads glowing like tiny beacons in the dark. There were no stars in the bright, clear, night sky, however; the light from the ground had washed out natural starlight. But that was all right; the lights had become an ultramodern work of art, if only in the eyes of the beholder.

"I never realized Vice City was so beautiful at night. It will vanish one day, I'm sure," Nick mused.

"Yeah," Andy replied.

Nick turned to Andy.

"Come back and retake the Family with me, Andy. Then, we can make a fortune, leave Vice City for good, and maybe retire to some tropical island somewhere," Nick thought out loud.

"No way," Andy rejected, deadpan, as he turned to face Nick.

"Nick…last time, three years ago, we weren't afraid to die! Nobody and nothing could stop us! Now, you're afraid, aren't you? What happened to you? Why are you so timid?"

"Now, we don't have to commit crimes to survive. If you want to leave VC, then fine; let's go together, and start a new life, but don't go after Mike."

"If that's the case, then you go first!"

"Even if you kill Mike and take over, so what? The police will still go after you! You'll still be hunted down! I've already lost a brother! I don't want to lose you too!" Andy pleaded.

"Nick, wake up! Don't you know what he's done to us? We have to get back at him!"

"In that case, leave me!" Andy shouted.

"Andy! I've my own ideals! I'm not afraid to die! I've been patiently waiting for you for three years! I just want to take back what's ours, and prove to them that we are still worthy of respect! That we can still do that! We're Made Men, dammit! Nick, what happened to you? I didn't know that prison changed you so much! I didn't know you're such a coward!"

"Nick—"

"Andy, since you don't wish to join me, fine. I'll go my way, and you go yours. We all have to choose a road for ourselves," Nick spat, before turning around and limping away on his one good leg.

"Nick!" Andy called.

"Damn you, Andy!" Nicholas Caruso replied furiously, heading downstairs.

Andrew DiMilo didn't catch up with Nick. Instead, he stood and stared after the disappearing figure.

Author's Note: My mid-years are over…but not my 'O' levels. I'm also working on a full-length novel in conjunction with my fanfiction and original fiction pieces, so please be patient. I've kept the dialogue as true to the original as I can make it, but I've had had to add in some extras and remove some bits here and there. The Cherry Poppers Ice Cream Factory was really an apartment block in Hong Kong, and the parking lot was Victoria Heights in the movie. I had to make do…


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Payback

Nick kept his facial expression neutral as he strode ('gimped' would be better, though he didn't want to admit it) into the underground parking lot of Tommy Vercetti's printing press. His overcoat, dusty and faded with age, swung gently from side to side with each step, covering a couple of the grease stains on the green overalls he was wearing.

It had finally boiled down to this. Mike had forever lost Nick's loyalty, and more importantly, his respect. That made mike a personal enemy, not a professional one. Nick had been in the mob long enough to know that personal enemies will do their best to kill you anytime, anywhere, while professional ones only do so if they decided that it was in their best interests to do so…and that there was no risk to them.

Nick didn't particularly care what would happen to him, so long as he could get some payback. Besides, seeing as how Mike had quietly taken over Tommy Vercetti's business in Vice City, he figured that he was doing the bossTommy Vercettia favor by ridding his organization of a traitor.

The old man running the place, Oliver whatshisname, was right in front of him. Nick had been trailing the old man ever since he stepped out of the building to buy some snacks and stationery for the workers in the Print Works, eluding the rest of Mike's men when necessary.

Reaching under his coat, Nick pulled out a pair of Browning High Powers, one to each hand. Stealthily moving up to Oliver, he pressed his left pistol into the small of Oliver's back, and moved the pistol in his right hand against the old man's right ear and cocked it. The resulting series of metallic clicks sounded awfully loud in the silent parking lot.

"What the"

"I've got another gun to your back, Oliver," Nick hissed. "The safety is off. Don't try anything funny."

"What are you"

"The Browning High Power holds thirteen nine times nineteen millimeter bullets. It can also hold another round in its chamber. That means that I have twenty-eight shots. You know what I can do to you with that?"

Privately, he preferred Colts and .45s; they were more reliable, and more powerful, respectively. But, they were too expensive for his limited budget, and he preferred Browning's designs to everything else. Besides, it's not as if Oliver knew jack shit about guns.

"I"

"Shut up, and listen. You're still running the Print Works, no? I want in. Call the elevator. When the door is open, stay still, and I'll join you."

"But"

"Shut up, or you'll end up as a corpse. I don't give a shit either way. Am I clear?"

"Yes," the forger agreed, his voice shaking.

"Go. And if you turn around, I'll put a bullet in your brain."

Oliver walked off, willing his legs to remain steady. Shit…why did Nick have to come back? Nobody in the Mafia cared about anything apart from money and power. Hell, only the old-timers actually bothered about respect and honor…and they had all died out in the '50s.

Right?

Still walking, Oliver made his way past a row of cars. He didn't dare look back; he was too aware of what violence Nick could wreak. Not as if he would see anything before he got shot anyway: Nick was among the best in the business, crippled or no.

Sweat trickled down his cheek and gathered in his palms. His knuckles turned white as he though of the guns trained on him. He was still working only for the money! He hadn't done anything wrong! It was Mike and his men who did all the bad shit; he was just doing some computer work! He didn't deserve to die! He had to support his wife, his children, his aged parents, his mother-in-law…

Walking the last few yards, he whispered a short prayer, trying to remember the exact wordings as taught to him by the Church he had renounced. After a lifetime, he found himself in front of the elevator door. He called it.

_Please, God, let me get out of this…_

A few seconds passed, then the elevator doors smoothly opened.

That was when he felt cold metal against the back of his head.

"Step inside," Nick hissed.

The two men entered the elevator. Nick kept guard as the doors closed.

"What now?" his captive asked.

"To the control room."

Oliver pressed a button on the control panel. A moment later, the elevator responded, closing the elevator doors. The elevator hummed as it rose.

"Why are you doing this?" Oliver demanded.

Nick kept silent, his pistols by his sides.

"Nick, you were a Made Man. Why are you"

His guns were up in a flash, pointed at Oliver's belly, fingers on the trigger.

"Mike betrayed me," Nick replied simply.

"But…"

"But this is a matter of honor. He's now my enemy, as well as anybody in my way. You cross me, you die. If you cooperate, you get to go home to the wife and kiddies. Anything else you wanna know?"

Oliver wisely kept silent.

"Good."

A minute of silence passed. Then, the doors opened out into a corridor.

"Out," Nick ordered.

Oliver was out in a flash. Nick followed behind. Together, the two of them walked to a door at the far end. Nick stayed clear, remembering the security camera at the end. It was angled such that it could clearly see whomever was at the door, but not in the corridor.

Strangely enough, there wasn't a guard at the door. All the better for Nick: he didn't like wasting bullets. He kept his pistols pointed at Oliver as he walked up to the control room door, and punched in the access code.

Oliver's fingers shook badly as he typed in the code, almost forgetting the access code. As soon as the four numbers were entered, the door opened. Stepping in, he took a deep breath.

He was in the control room. Mike had become paranoid recently, and had upgraded security. There were now two armed suit-clad gangsters overseeing the operation, in addition to the forgers in the room. Oliver turned to the closer of the two.

"Yes?" he asked.

"There's"

Oliver didn't quite finish his statement. As soon as the word left his mouth, Nick swept in, pistols raised and scanning the area, kicking Oliver forward to make room. The gangsters hesitated, one reaching for his pistol.

"Ah-ah!" Nick warned cheerfully. "You draw a gun, you die. Keep your hands where I can see 'em," he added, emphasizing his point by leveling both pistols at the criminals.

"Hey! What's going on?" one of the forgers asked.

"Shut up and sit down," Nick responded. "Oliver, go get the data roll, the one you rely on to make your forgeries."

Oliver scooted off to the metal cabinet holding the data rolls.

Meanwhile, Nick said, "Tell ya what: since I'm feeling generous today, I'll let you take out your guns, with your thumb and forefinger."

"Wha…? We don't have any guns!"

"Don't bullshit me; I can see bulges under your suit jackets. With one hand, take out your guns, with your thumb and forefinger through the trigger guard. Put them on the floor. Do it too fast and I'll shoot," he ordered.

"But"

"No 'buts' or you're a grease spot," Nick warned.

The gangsters reluctantly obeyed, slowly taking their weapons from under their suits. Even more cautiously, they lowered their firearms to the floor, wondering if Nick would shoot them.

He wouldn't. He was too busy examining the guns. One of them was a Beretta M92FS, now called the M9 by the US military. Andy would prefer that. The other gun was a Colt Series 80 Government Model, the same type of gun he had used in the shootout at the Shanghai Inn three years ago.

"Take a few steps back," Nick ordered.

The gangsters complied. Holstering a pistol, Nick picked up both guns from the floor with his left hand, one at a time, and dropped them into his coat pockets.

"Got any spare ammo?" he asked.

The gangsters responded by emptying their pockets, coming up with three mags for the Beretta and two for the Colt. Nick pocketed them too, just as Oliver appeared, a data roll in his hands.

"Pass it to me," Nick ordered.

Oliver did just that. Nick inserted his right arm through the hole in the middle of the roll, and secured it in his armpit.

"Thank you," Nick said. "Don't go after me or you'll get it from me."

"Huh?"

Covering the men with his pistols, Nick walked backwards out of the control room, fingers tensed against the triggers of his Browning High Powers. He knew that reinforcements would be coming; it was just a matter of how long it would take for them to arrive.

Wasting no time, he spun around, coat fluttering with his movement, and sprinted (limped very quickly) back to the elevator as soon as the control room doors slid shut. Calling the elevator, he covered the other door in the corridor, the one leading to the security team.

Half a minute later, the lift doors opened, revealing nobody in the elevator. Nick stepped in, pressing the button to the basement parking lot. As the doors slid closed, the door to the security team burst open, and a group of gangsters stormed out. One of them raised his gun, but was too late. The doors were closed.

Nick knew that they would be waiting for him. There was another security group guarding the main entrance to the Print Works, and the alarm should have been raised by now. Triple-checking his pistols, he ensured that he was ready for a fight. He pulled back the slides on the pistols by a fraction, seeing the brass casing of a bullet nestled in the chambers of both guns. Using his right thumb and left index finger, he checked that the safeties were off. Looking down, he visually confirmed that the weapons were cocked, ready to go.

A few moments later, the elevator car stopped.

The doors opened.

Nick stepped out.

And rolled to his right as best as he could, seeing a waiting gunman behind a Banshee sports car, aiming his gun at him.

_Showtime!_

Nick landed behind a Sentinel, a loud burst of lead punctuating his movements. Getting up to a crouching position, he used the trunk of the car as cover, keeping as low as possible turning to face the shooter. He was standing, looking for Nick. Nick grinned, aiming the pistols as much as possible before pulling the trigger.

He fired four shots into the gangster's sternum as quickly as possible, the gunshots reverberating throughout the parking lot, brass casings flying from the ejection ports of his weapons. The 9mm rounds punched through him, blowing him straight down to the ground, his MAC 10 clattering to the ground.

Turning right, he saw a pair of gangsters approaching him. Nick's left gun aligned itself over the man on the left, and his right gun appeared over the one of the right. He pulled the triggers, seeing the guy on the right catch a round in his throat and the one on the left take a round to the chest. Blood gushed out of the throat wound, accompanied by a horrifying gurgling issued from the hole. The one with the chest wound remained standing. Nick readjusted his aim, and pumped out two pairs of shots, and the two collapsed.

Getting up, he gimped forward, scanning. A gangster suddenly rolled out from an Infernus in front of him, firing his MAC 10 from the hip...and missing. Nick lowered his pistols, and panic-fired a flurry of shots into him. The mobster screamed as several 9mm rounds slammed into his torso, before the fusillade cracked his head open.

The Brownings' slides locked back, revealing a pair of smoking barrels. The pistols were empty.

Something told him to look around. He did so, spotting the security group rush out at him. There were six of them, armed with a mixture of Uzi and MAC 10 machine pistols.

Biting off a curse, Nick awkwardly rolled, then dived behind a car, just as the gangsters started firing, almost tripping over his duster overcoat. One bullet blew into his left arm, a clean in-and-out wound that really didn't do any real damage. The shock of the impact caused his hand to spasm involuntarily, and the pistol dropped from his left hand.

"Shit!" he cursed, partly from the pain, partly because his discarded pistol had landed in the open, where he could not reach it without receiving a helping of lead…and partly because the bullet had blown a hole in his favorite coat.

Ejecting the magazine from his lone Browning High Power, he found a fresh one in his coat pocket and rammed it home, hearing it _click_ as it engaged. Releasing the slide lock, he scanned the area.

His eyes fell on a cart to his left.

Apart from a stack of sturdy-looking metal containers piled upon it, there was nothing extraordinary about it…except for the fact that the containers were thick enough to be bullet-resistant.

Crouching low, he limped up to it and rolled the cart towards the Banshee he had been hiding behind. The other gunmen were still firing, a withering stream of lead coming his way, shattering the window glass, and blowing in bullet holes in the car body.

Angling the cart such that it now faced the right wall, he took a deep breath, and took a few moments to wonder why the hell he was doing this. Then, he stood up, keeping his torso behind the containers as much as possible. Pressing down hard on the containers with his left hand, he ran out from cover, using the cart and its containers as a mobile shield. He peeked out above the containers, aiming the pistol in his right hand.

Most of the security group had wisely sought cover…except for a fool in the middle of the road. Nick blew him away with four rounds before the mobster realized his error. Turning, he saw an exposed head pop out from behind at car trunk. Nick shot at it, his first round missing but his second blowing the gangster's brains out.

The others shot at Nick. Keeping low, he felt bullets slam into the containers, with one or two even penetrating and passing him by mere inches. He instinctively turned around, spotting a gangster holding what appeared to be an MP5 in his hand, behind the car behind the car he was heading to.

Both gangster and ex-Made Man raised their weapons.

Nick was faster. Firing a triplet of rounds, Nick saw the gangster catch a shot to the gut, then chest, and fall over, releasing his weapon.

Returning to the battle in front of him, he spotted a pair of gangsters trying to break cover, both running out to a car. Nick alternated his fire as he ran, firing one bullet at a target before moving on to the next. He drilled six shots at the two, and they both collapsed, bleeding profusely, with two bullets in one body and three in the other.

Reaching his destination, Nick rolled away and landed on his stomach behind a Washington. The last two gangsters opened up on him with automatic weapons; sounded like M16s. He needed the extra firepower the MP5 afforded him.

Keeping as low as possible, he headed for the gangster he had shot earlier, behind the car he was using for cover. As it turned out, he was still alive, moaning softly as a blood bubble formed on his lips. Nick placed the barrel of his Browning to the man's forehead and pulled the trigger, seeing a storm of blood erupt from the man's head, before turning to his weapon.

The man wasn't using an MP5. It was a HK53 assault rifle, resembling a MP5 with an elongated handguard and smaller barrel. This rifle was the 5.56x45mm NATO variant of the venerable G3 assault rifle produced by Heckler und Koch…and as reliable and accurate as all hell.

Pocketing his Browning, Nick snatched up the HK53. He checked it, finding a more or less full magazine and a round in the chamber. Searching the dead man, Nick found a pair of magazines for the HK53, and eight hundred dollars in cash, all of which he pocketed. He checked the safety.

It was set to 'S'. Stupid idiot. Nick flicked the fire selection switch past 'S', to 'E', and then to 'F', remembering that the letters were the first letters for the German words for 'Safe', 'Single Fire', and 'Automatic' respectively…or something like that.

Peeking around his cover, he saw the remaining two gangsters, one moving towards him and the other behind another Sentinel. Raising his new (and somewhat unfamiliar) weapon, Nick aimed carefully, ignoring his burning left arm, and fired a burst into the moving gangster. The bullets tore into him, fragmenting, yawing and tumbling to create massive wounds inside him before blowing out the other side. The shooter fell forward on his face.

The other mobster saw that he was alone, then thought what the hell, and charged towards Nick, firing his rifle off his hip. The weapon emptied itself after half a minute, and all thirty shots in the magazine did nothing more than blow holes in the wall and force Nick behind cover temporarily.

The gangster stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he realized that his weapon was empty. Nick sprang up, aimed, and fired another burst into him, seeing him jerk with every impact, blood spurting out of his wounds.

When the last gangster collapsed, Nick turned around, coat swaying with his motion.

Gripping his new weapon with his left hand, Nick reached into his coat, removing a matchbox. Flicking it open with his right hand, he extracted a matchstick and shut the box by pressing it against his middle finger and palm.

Nick placed the match stick in his mouth, tasting fresh wood.

He headed for the ramp leading up and out of the Print Works' underground parking lot. He didn't get very far before he heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle, a Faggio by the sound of it.

Nick rolled behind a car, covering the ramp with his rifle. Presently, the Faggio rolled into view, carrying a black-helmeted rider dressed in a brown leather jacket and white trousers.

The rider stopped the vehicle. Something told Nick not to shoot.

The motorcyclist spotted Nick, and removed his helmet.

"Nick," Andy called.

"Andy," Nick replied, standing up.

The two men stared at each other, then broke into wide grins.

Walking up to Andy, Nick extended his right hand, removed the data roll from his arm, and held it in his damaged left hand, holding it out to him.

Andy took the roll.

Author's Note: Once again, I have modified the original scene from the movie due to legal and game-connected reasons. Among other things, Nick's character didn't pick up any weapons in the gunfight, and didn't make any headshots. Due to circumstances (a combination of exams, buggy Internet connection, homework, my parents, and a lack of free time), I'll be updating very sporadically, but THIS STORY IS NOT DEAD. I'll finish it soon…hopefully by the end of December. I think.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Meeting Places 

Vice City Concert Hall

Andy looked around, standing in the shadowy wing just next to the brightly-lit stage. A blue sling bag hung from his right shoulder, heavy with something or other.

A school choir group was rehearsing on the stage for some upcoming event. It was composed entirely of children, none a day older than eight or nine years old. Their collective voice had a high-pitched, pure timbre, like how angels must sound. Guided by their teacher in charge, a boy soloist began to sing, his innocent voice the only sound for a while.

"_No matter how dark your road..._"

"Andy," a voice called out.

He turned to his left, beholding Christine, the worried expression on her face belying her bright yellow clothing. Standing in the light, many of the fine details on her clothing were obliterated by the shadow her body had cast.

"Chris," he greeted.

_"No matter how long it takes..."_

"Andy, of all the meeting places you could have chosen, why here?" Chris wondered.

_"Please remember that the sun will shine again__"_

"Because it's neutral ground."

_"And the raging storm will pass."_

"What do you mean?"

A girl took her cue, and continued from where her partner had left off.

_"Don't compromise your soul..."_

"Nick and I...took something from Mike DeFrantz. I want you to have it. Pass it on to Tony for me, please," Andy whispered, holding his hand out, offering her the sling bag.

_"Your honor's your last refuge..."_

"Andy...what is it?"

_"Don't care what all of them say..."_

"It's...something important. Tony will understand what it is."

_"Just remember to be yourself."_

"Also," Andy continued, "tell him to be at the docks at midnight tomorrow, with the whole police force."

The rest of the choir started singing, just as Christine Graham DiMilo accepted the bag.

_"These dark days will surely pass__"_

"Why?"

_"__And the light will break through again."_

"It's important. Say it's from me."

_"Don't give up now..."_

"Andy...why are you doing this?"

_"Not when the end is near..."_

What could he say? Honor? Was that the only thing that he could say?

_"So please take my hand__"_

The answer came to him, as clear and powerful as the sun's rays breaking through dark, ominous storm clouds.

_"And come with me to a better tomorrow."_

"For a better tomorrow...one without gangsters, criminals...and one where honor exists."

Andy turned around and walked away, making his way around the stage, disappearing around the corner.

"Andy, wait!" Chris cried, running towards him, ignoring the now-curious choir.

But it was no use. Andy was gone.

Later, Hyman Condos...

"What the hell!" Mike shouted into the telephone.

"Geez, Boss. Like I said, Nick came in, blew away the guards, stole the data roll" Oliver Powers protested, a few miles away on the other end of the line.

"YOU INCOMPETANT IDIOT! WHAT THE HELL AM I PAYING YOU FOR, YOU WORHTLESS PIECE OF SHIT! WHY THE HELL DID YOU LET THAT SON OF A BITCH GET THE DATA ROLL! DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO US! HUH! DO YA!" Mike roared.

"Sorry Boss..."

"SORRY? SORRY? YOU, YOU WORTHLESS, BRAINLESS, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS, YOU'RE SORRY! YOU JUST RUINED US ALL! NOW GET BACK TO WORK AND START SHUTTING THE PRINTING PRESS DOWN!"

Mike angrily slammed the telephone receiver down, missing the cradle. It bounced off the table with a loud, hollow _thunk_. Mike furiously picked it up, and returned the receiver to its proper position. His face was flushed a deep red, his breathing shallow, rapid, and audibly loud.

Idiots! How the hell can a goddamned _cripple_ do all that? Shit! It's not as if Nick Caruso was goddamned Tommy Vercetti or anything!

"Mike," Pete evenly said from behind him.

"What?" he snarled, turning around.

The two men were in Mike DeFrantz's apartment's living room. Pete was sitting rigidly at the edge of a black leather sofa, taking no comfort from its superior design and materials. In front of him was a glass table, upon which was a pair of coffee cups sitting atop another pair of coasters. Glaring sunlight flooded in from the full-length windows opposite Pete, forcing him to look away to protect his ageing eyes.

"Calm down. Tommy will"

"Tommy will what!"

"He'll take care of things, like he's always done before. Hell, the police" Pete reassured him, and failed.

"The police chief has been replaced, don't you know? The VCPD, FBI, even the Secret Service is after us! They're cracking down hard on all our businesses, thanks to him! They've already raided, what, a dozen nightclubs and fronts belonging to us!"

"But most the guys who've been arrested don't know anything about how we operate"

"We've lost ten grand in one _day_! And those who do know how we work are squealing to whoever can offer 'em the best deal!"

"I've called Tommy. He's rounding up some guys in New York to help us. They're good men, great shooters"

"How long will he take?"

"About a week"

"We don't have _three days_! I swear, the FBI's just opposite the street!"

He was understating the problem. Unknown to everyone, the FBI had virtually surrounded the whole building, using state-of-the-art eavesdropping equipment to gather evidence against Mike.

"In that case, we should"

"I know what to do, goddammit!"

The telephone rang.

Mike cocked his head at it. Pete sighed, got up, and picked it up.

"Hello?" he nervously asked.

"Pete? It's me, Andy," the caller said.

"Andy? Thank God! Where"

"Shut up and listen, Pete," Andy growled menacingly. "I have the data roll for your printing press. I'm sure you know how important it is."

Sure as hell he knew. The printing press was one of the foundations of the Vercetti criminal empire. The Feds had decimated their drug processing and distribution networks, led by a Special Agent Richard Grant and his team, now hailed by the press as the modern-day Untouchables.

"Yeah, I do."

"Listen very closely, then. Nick and I are willing to trade it for ten million dollars in unmarked bills, and the ability to turn around and walk away without any problems. We don't care about what's happening in VC: we just want out. The meeting place is the Church of the Sacrament in VC at eleven p.m. tomorrow. You know where it is, right?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Good. Tell Mike he'd better be there."

"Don't worry, I will."

"If you're late, we're going to the cops. You do know we can work a deal with the Feds, right?"

"Yes, yes!" he agreed. The Vercetti gang had been his life. He couldn't bear to see it go down the drain, not while he was still around.

"Good."

Andy hung up; Pete heard a _click_, then a continuous tone. He hung up, too.

"Well?" Mike demanded.

"Andy and Nick have the data roll," Pete said, turning to his boss. "They want to exchange it for ten million dollars and freedom. He's setting up a meet at the Church of the Sacrament, at midnight. He wants you to be there."

Mike nodded, slowly, visibly calmed down.

"All right then."

"So, what are we going to do about this situation?" Pete asked.

"I already have a plan," Mike assured him.

"Good. So, what's the first step?" Pete wondered, relieved.

"Getting rid of you."

"Wha?"

Reaching under his coat, Mike removed a silenced Hush Puppy. Extending his right hand, he fired two shots. Both 9x19mm Parabellum rounds entered Pete's head, blowing its contents out all over the parquet floor. Pete collapsed soundlessly, blood, bone, and brains hemorrhaging from the wound.

Mike lowered his gun.

Silently, the domestic staff appeared, witnessing the spectacle, their faces drained of blood. None of them dared to scream, or even react. They knew Mike's wrath if they dared to do anything without his permission.

"You know what to do," Mike muttered.

They nodded in submission.

Author's Note: I apologize for this short chapter and its format, but that is deliberate: around this part of the movie, the dialogue makes more sense than then action. Also, in the movie, Interpol hadn't set up any surveillance networks...at least, visibly. Two more chapters to go; I'll be done with this story by year's end. As my 'O' levels are coming, I'll be busy studying most of the time. I hope you, dear reader, can understand.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Standoff 

Church of the Sacrament

Darkness fell across the city…just the plain darkness that comes with the absence of light, not the absence of good, like so many other days in VC. The night sky was brighter, lighter somehow. Nick didn't notice, however, and Andy wrote it off to the extremely bright lights the hotels in VC use.

The small church, a chapel, really, was empty. Save for Andy and Nick, it showed no signs of life. The church's four-by-eight set of pews, used only a few hours ago, were old and battered, but free of any deliberate damage. The pulpit, still stood proudly, taking centre stage, its age not a bane, but a boon. Behind it was the rood screen, also called a jube, its tarnished brass bars starting to fell rough to the touch.

Neither Andy nor Nick cared. They were watching the only entrance to the church…and waiting. Andy stood by the pulpit; he had a clear line of sight to the front door. He kept his hands in the pockets of his brown coat: in the right pocket was his Beretta, in the left were three spare magazines. His hair had started to go gray, emphasizing the deep-set lines in his face. On any other day, in any other place, he would be smoking…but something told him that it wouldn't be proper, not here.

Nick stood in the shadows next to the door, shifting his weight on his bad leg. He wore a blank expression on his face, neither happy nor sad, angry or bitter…just nothing. Over his green overalls was his duster, the only other piece of clothing he had left. He grasped the HK53 tightly in his right hand, waiting for the chance to use it. He leaned against the wall, his breathing falling into a slow, gentle, rhythm, as regular as a metronome.

All was calm, as calm as the second before a violent storm. Time seemed to slow down, sluggishly moving through the space-time continuum, like a man attempting to run while submerged in water. The men stood.

Watching.

Waiting.

"Nick…" Andy said suddenly.

"Yeah?" the ex-mechanic replied.

"Do you believe in God?"

"Yeah, I do," he wearily answered. "I am a god. Anybody with the power to change anything is a god."

He sighed.

"But even a god can't protect himself," he ominously concluded.

"Christine knows the truth behind this affair; I passed the data roll to her," Nick changed tack.

"Good. There're still some honest cops in the VCPD…they'll tie up that loose end for us."

"Hopefully…"

No, not hopefully. Tony would. He would see to that. After all, his sworn mission in life was to protect and serve the people of Vice City, which means going after criminals of all stripes.

Outside the church, a car pulled up to the pavement. Both ex-Made Men heard the doors open, then slam shut. A few seconds later, the door opened, revealing Mike DeFrantz and his four bodyguards. Mike held a plain black briefcase in his left hand; his bodyguards kept their pistols in their coat pockets.

There would be no swap, Andy knew. As soon as the Mafia goons got their hands on the data roll, Andy and Nick would be as good as dead: the modern-day Mafia had forgotten the meaning of a word called honor.

Which was why neither Andy nor Nick played fair today.

They entered the church, oblivious to Nick's presence…or the fact that he was creeping up behind them.

"Don't move," Nick whispered, stepping forward and raising his weapon to Mike's head.

Mike froze in shock, inhaling sharply. His brain took control, and released the pressure in his chest.

His men whipped around, reaching for their pieces—

"Don't!" Mike hissed. "Don't do anything, boys."

"But, Boss—" one of them protested.

"Don't."

"Okay."

Nick took a step backwards, then limped around in front of the Mafia men, covering them with his gun. Mike and his bodyguards stood, helpless before a one-man firing squad. They heard the rumors, how Nick had personally cut down a gang of criminals in a botched extortion…and those goons had their guns out, not in their pockets.

The fact that Nick had shot the gangsters while they were drawing their weapons was lost to the world…not that he minded, of course.

Nick gimped up to Mike, placing the muzzle of his HK53 at Mike's throat. The gangster stiffened as Nick frisked him with one hand. Nick pulled out Mike's Beretta M9 from his shoulder holster, as easily as taking candy from a baby, and aimed both guns at him.

"The money?" Nick demanded.

Mike held out his briefcase. Andy took it with his left hand, keeping his gun hand free.

"The data roll?" Mike asked.

"With the police."

Mike's eyes bulged in shock. Andy allowed himself a quiet, internal smile, savoring that moment of triumph, when you know that your enemy knows that you have bested him…and that he has no hope of redemption.

Andy drew his pistol, covering the gangsters. Nick picked up the heavy briefcase, setting in on the pulpit. He set his hands on the briefcase, preparing to open it.

"Wait!" Mike shouted.

Nick looked up.

"There's a bomb inside the briefcase."

Nick hesitated, keeping his hands where they were. What could he do now? Mike could be bluffing; he wasn't above using such dirty tricks. But then, he could be deadly serious: the briefcase was too heavy to be holding just money. If he opened it…if he opened it…

"You're that cowardly?" Mike taunted. "How can you challenge me?"

Nick hesitated. He could open it…he could leave it…and that was all he could do. Last year, Mike had killed a rival by delivering a bomb to his home, disguised as a bouquet of flowers. Mike could also be bluffing…

"You idiot!" Mike yelled. "If there were a bomb in the briefcase, it'll kill us all if it explodes!"

Well, what the hell: an explosion at this range would probably kill Mike, so if there really was a bomb in the briefcase, then at least, the two of them would go to hell together, Nick decided.

Slowly, hesitatingly, he unclasped the locks on the briefcase, and opened it.

Inside the briefcase were rows and rows of green dollar bills, United States currency, all old, used and unmarked. Only this, and nothing more.

Nick inwardly heaved a mental sigh of relief.

"I told you so!" Mike called, smiling, relishing the moment.

A strange expression overcame Nick's face, an amalgam of fury, hatred, bitterness, relief, battle-joy, and death. He walked up to Mike—

Andy muttered, "Nick, what are you—"

Nick threw a swift right roundhouse punch, landing it on Mike's cheek, knocking him to the floor with a surprised cry.

Meanwhile, at Hyman Condos…

Chia inspected the remains of Peter Baldacci. It was not a pretty sight, but death never was.

The domestic staff had called the police twenty minutes ago, reporting that a man had barged into the apartment he was in, and shot Baldacci twice. They said that he was wearing green overalls, a black duster, and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. Crime Scene Investigation had secured the body, and was now looking for evidence.

Chia sighed and stood up. Around him were six members of the VCPD CSI, all dressed in civilian clothes and carrying briefcases full of equipment. All were furiously combing the area with magnifying glasses and white rubber gloves. Chia stepped aside, leaving the scene of the crime and ducking under the police tape he had thrown up.

The staff was being interviewed by the responding detective after him. They were sitting down on some chairs moved in from the dining room, waiting for their turn to speak. Chia approached them, removing a notebook from his pocket, containing the photographs of known contract killers and gangsters in VC.

He flipped open to a random criminal, showed it to the staff, and asked, "Is this the shooter?"

"No," they said, each with his or her variation on the response.

"His face is rounder," one suggested.

Chia flipped to another page, and repeated the question. Of course, he received a negative reply. This charade continued, confirming that they hadn't been ordered to select the first poor idiot they saw from the book.

Finally, Chia showed them Nicholas Caruso's picture.

"That's him! That's the one!" one of them affirmed.

The others agreed.

"Thank you," Chia responded. "Will you testify?"

"Yes."

Later…

Nick and Andy drove Mike to the docks in a stolen car, his bodyguards trailing behind in Mike's white limousine. Not a word was exchanged between hostage and captors in the journey, the tense silence a grim prologue of what to come next.

Both parties stopped just outside the docks. Andy got out first, keeping his Beretta's muzzle at Mike's throat as he forced the mob boss out of the car. Andy faced the bodyguards, using Mike as a human shield of sorts. Nick grabbed his stolen HK53, shut the door, and whispered, "Mike, you move, Andy will blow your brains out…and then I'll cut you in half."

Mike nodded.

"Let's go," Andy urged, prodding the barrel of his pistol into Mike's back.

The seven men cautiously made their way to the jetty at the far side of the docks. Nick led the way with his HK53, probing the darkness for any sign of life. Andy walked backwards, occasionally looking over his shoulder at his partner-in-crime, no, _comrade_, now restraining Mike in a chokehold. The bodyguards followed them, of course, weapons drawn. Not a word was said; none was needed.

Suddenly, Nick caught movement in the dark, just behind a crate.

He pointed his carbine at the crate, finger moving to the trigger, disengaging the safety.

A man suddenly popped up, a pistol in his hands—

Nick fired, a conical-cylindrical stream of fire erupting from the muzzle of the HK53. The gangster collapsed with a strangled scream.

All around them, more gangsters appeared, weapons drawn, and looking for a fight, somewhere in the shadows of the docks.

"SHIT! MOVE!" Nick screamed, running for cover.

"You set us up!" Andy snarled at Mike, moving as fast as he could, still holding on to Mike.

"You were going to do the same to us! I have sources in the VCPD, you know!" Mike retorted.

Andy saw somebody move, from the corner of his eye. He pointed his pistol at the person's general direction and fired four times. Another mobster revealed himself from behind a forklift next to a pile of crates, a few meters to Andy's front, his Uzi cutting a wild burst. Andy drilled him twice in the centre of mass, and the gangster went down.

Nick vaulted over a crate, now just a few yards from the jetty where their getaway boat was, just a few more yards to the end. He peeked over the wooden crate, seeing Andy and Mike move too freaking slowly for his taste.

"MOVE, DAMMIT!" he screamed, standing up and bringing his HK53 to his shoulder. He fired at the closest muzzle flash he saw, then the next, and then another, and another, empty cartridge casings flying from the ejection port in a golden spray. He didn't really track the men's progress, he was just shooting anything that moved and fired.

An eternity later, Andy and Mike lay next to Nick, who was still shooting.

He crouched to reload, and saw the two men.

"Go to the boat first!" Andy shouted.

"Aren't you going?" Nick demanded.

"No! I've business to attend to here. I'll contact you! GO!" he urged.

"All right. Goodbye, then."

Nick went prone, and crawled towards the boat. Andy stood up, jerking his hostage to his feet.

Meanwhile, at the entrance of the docks…

Tony paid the taxi driver, and stepped out of the car. As soon as the cab left, the area exploded into gunfire.

_SHIT!_

Drawing his service pistol, he ran into the dock. He forgot his training, though. After taking a few steps into the dock, a man stuck his foot out from the shadows, tripping the inspector. He went tumbling forward, landing flat on his face, his Colt clattering away somewhere.

As he picked himself up, a cold voice whispered, "You're coming with me, cop."

"What the—"

The gangster behind him grabbed the policeman by the collar of his jacket and forced him to his feet. Tony swore, and raised his hands. He felt cold, hard hands pat him down, efficiently frisking him, and throwing his spare magazines away. A sharp pain to his kidneys encouraged him to move.

A few moments later…

"STOP SHOOTING AT ME, IDIOTS!" Mike desperately roared, bullets whizzing past his ear. Andy was still using him as a human shield, engaging all the gangsters he could see.

The gunfire stopped. Just as well; Andy only had two bullets left in the magazine.

"Bring him here!" someone ordered.

A couple of shadows appeared. The one in front stumbled forwards, into a lamppost's area of influence. Andy saw the person's face—

_What the hell!_

Tony looked up, standing under the light.

"What the hell!" he muttered.

"He's your brother, isn't he?" an unseen voice asked, the question aimed at Andy.

He didn't reply, his silence enough of an answer.

"Let's have a little swap, shall we? You let the boss go, and we'll return your brother to you," whoever the hell it was offered.

"Damn you!" Tony shouted.

"Well, Andrew?" the Voice insisted.

"Damn you," he whispered, forcing Mike away from what little cover the crate afforded.

"Shit…" Tony sighed, seeing Andy drag Mike towards a patch of open ground, right where anyone could shoot him.

"Go, damn you," Andy hissed, kicking Mike forward.

The mob boss regained his composure after a moment. Standing up, tall and proud, he walked towards his men. Tony was given a rough shove forward. Keeping his hands up, he walked towards Andy.

Both criminal and cop met, after a few moments of silence.

Then, Mike stopped.

So did Tony.

Andy kept his Beretta pointed at the mobsters.

The unseen gangsters trained their weapons on Tony and Andy.

Standoff.

A moment passed.

A lifetime ticked by.

Then, Mike moved.

"NOW!" he shouted, diving to his right.

"Shit!" Andy cursed, diving to his left, towards another pile of crates and boxes.

"Damn!" Tony muttered, lunging towards his brother.

A hail of gunfire followed, rounds screaming above the men's heads, just barely missing them. Tony crawled and writhed towards the nearest cover he could find. So did his brother. Mike picked himself up as soon as he hit the ground, and ran towards his men, vaulting past a makeshift barricade of crates and vehicles, and landing next to his men.

"You okay, boss?" one of them asked.

"Yeah," he replied, not even looking at him. "Give me a gun."

"Here!"

A firearm appeared out of nowhere, arcing through the air. Mike caught it cleanly and confidently, immediately recognizing it as a Skorpion machine pistol. Standing up, he pointed the weapon at the brothers, and unleashed a burst.

"What the hell!" Tony exclaimed, seeing Andy next to him.

"No time for pleasantries. Let's go!" his criminal brother commanded.

"I don't have a gun!" Tony pointed out, bullets ricocheting off the metal containers next to the crate. He belatedly realized that the crate they were using for cover was made of wood; bullets would be able to tear through t very easily…and had: he saw a couple of holes in the crate.

Andy reached under his jacket, extracting an S & W Model 18 revolver, and tossed it to Tony. As soon as the inspector caught it, Andy passed a couple of speedloaders to him, devices designed to store six bullets to allow rapid reloading of revolvers.

"Let's rock!" Andy cried.

Author's Note: In the original movie, I think Tony was allowed to keep his gun, which is somewhat stupid. Also, there was no Voice in the movie: Mike handled the negotiations. Here, due to legal and plot reasons, I can't do that. Finally, it is hard to say what the crates were made of in the movie; it was too dark. Now, my exams are over, and there's one more chapter to go. It should be done by the end of the week.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: A Better Tomorrow 

It didn't feel right, Nick decided, his Cuban Jetmax slicing a path through the dark, choppy water. Here he was, fleeing Vice City for the mainland, while the Mafia was shooting at Andy. After all, the two of them had gone through thick and thin together, they were almost as close, if not closer, than brothers. Besides, hadn't they agreed to come out together?

_Well, dammit!_

Nick swerved the steering wheel around, heading back to the docks, leaving behind a foam-covered wake. He aligned the boat at the docks, accelerating it to full speed. In the night, the gunfire became sparkling beacons, the sound of shooting traveling a long way off. Reaching down, he found a large duffel bag, and opened it.

Reaching in, he pulled out a Soviet Rocket Propelled Grenade. Sitting down, he flipped the sights open, peered through it, and aligned the crosshairs at the section that seemed to have the greatest number of Mafia shooters.

"Bye-bye," he whispered, squeezing the trigger.

It was almost a sexual release. The launcher bucked, and the long, bulbous RPG shot out of the cheap metal assembly that was its launcher, its backblast illuminating the boat, if only temporarily. Nick tracked the projectile with his eyes, seeing it deviate from its intended course (Russian stuff is for _shit_!).

The RPG streaked through the night, over the water, slamming into a fuel tank a few seconds later. Both rocket and tank exploded in a fiery light show, a small fireball rising above the docks, a lot less pronounced than what one would see in Hollywood or Hong Kong cinema. Nick wouldn't know, but the explosion killed four Mafia gunmen at once, kindled two more like matchsticks, and attracted a hell of a lot of attention, enough for witnesses to call the VCPD.

Cursing, he rummaged through the bag, removing the HK53, and a pair of Browning High Power pistols he had bought earlier that night. He wanted his favorite Colts, but there were none available. Besides, a gun is a gun is a gun, certainly to the warrior and gunman anyway.

As the boat neared the docks, he made a last-second decision to sling the HK53 over his shoulder, and tote the Brownings instead. Only one man in the Mob could fire weapons akimbo with any degree of accuracy, and by God, it's him. They'll know as soon as they see his muzzle flashes.

The battle raged in front of him, though there was more shooting than hitting. Only Tony and Andy had the good sense to attempt to aim (they had very limited ammunition); the mobsters were spraying and praying, pointing their weapons in their targets' general direction and squeezing the trigger, in a vain attempt to hit somebody (or something).

Nick readied himself, relaxing, calming down. His fingers found the safety catches, discovering for the umpteenth time that they were disengaged. The hammers were cocked, as single-action pistols should be. The magazines were full, and both pistols had a round in the chamber.

The boat entered the general area of the docks. Almost immediately, Nick heard bullets sing all around him, whispering past his ears. He ducked, or at least, kept his head low. He had no targets; he wasn't going to shoot.

Through his eyes, he perceived the boat approach the jetty. He waited, timed himself, watching the jetty approach, judging distances, and—

—Nick hit the boat's brakes (_what was it called again?_), feeling the boat fight the forces of friction and reverse momentum, to no avail. As soon as the vessel stopped, he popped his head out, and leapt out of the Jetmax, gripping the boat's right side and performing a mid-cartwheel, his duster flapping in the motion.

As soon as his feet hit the concrete jetty, he bent his knees, absorbing the impact of the landing. Bouncing up, he ran forward, pointing his pistols and blasting everything that moved and was shooting at him.

Some light from a nearby streetlamp spilled over to the area just outside its area of influence, just enough to illuminate Tony and Andy. Nick ran for a stack of crates next to them, firing away at everyone who moved, his pistols bucking and roaring in the night. One, then two, a third, and finally four gangsters fell under his onslaught, catching the lead slugs in the gut, chest, and head.

He dove forward, firing his pistols randomly, aiming for the patch of land just in front of the crates—

A bullet glanced off his left shoulder—

—"Ouch!"—

—his left Browning fell from his suddenly-open left hand—

—Nick landed on his belly, covered by the metal crate. He got to his knees, and crawled towards the crate, oblivious to the fact that the bandage on his face was now caked with dirt. Keeping low, he stuck his pistol above his crate, and squeezed off some more rounds, emptying his magazine at the source of gunfire, predictably shooting nobody.

Andy looked to his right.

"Nick!" he cried, recognizing the figure he beheld.

"Andy!" Nick replied, grinning. He ejected the empty magazine from his pistol, letting it hit the floor. He reached into a pocket, removed a fresh magazine, slid it into the magazine well, and disengaged the slide lock.

"Cover us! We're going to flank them on the left!" Andy shouted above the gunfire.

"Okay!" Nick agreed, drawing his HK53 to his armpit.

"Hey!" Tony called, tugging his brother's sleeve.

"What?" Andy responded.

"What the hell?"

"Sorry I got you into this! Just follow me!"

Tony thought about it, thought about his chances of survival, and decided, _what the hell_.

"Now!" Andy shouted.

Nick recklessly stood up, in the middle of a poorly aimed fusillade. He didn't bother with the sights, didn't bother with aiming, he just pointed and fired, his weapon roaring in the night. He was grinning madly now, mad with sheer power and delight. As soon as he started firing, the smart gangsters took what cover they could, and the stupid ones returned fire.

Bullets spat out of his HK; brass cartridges blew out of the ejection port; the occasional idiotic gangster who stood up or broke cover caught a lucky shot or two and went down in sprays of blood. He sprayed and sprayed and sprayed, feeling the weapon dance and tremble against his body.

All too soon, the carbine went dry.

Meanwhile, Andy and Tony had moved away from the main action, gripping their firearms tightly, but not so tight that their hands lost strength. They scanned the night, making their way through an obstacle course of crates and forklifts and streetlights, before—

—A muzzle flash erupted in the night—

—"Damn!" Andy cursed, flattening himself against a nearby crate, sensing the bullet miss him by millimeters. Tony did the same, though his cover was so low that he had to drop to the ground.

As soon as the bullet passed, Tony was too busy moving to notice. Andy followed him on a parallel track. Both men set off, turning around the furthest corner of their crates, out of the distant shooter's line of fire. Andy saw movement to his left behind a crate, decided he saw a business suit, and fired a short group of rounds at it. The gangster caught a bullet to the throat, slumped forward, and died, a death gurgle escaping his lips.

Both men kept moving, heading towards the unseen gangster, watching him, seeing if he would expose himself, using cover and concealment wherever possible.

The shooter fired a long burst at them off his hip, imagining that he was John Wayne. For his trouble, he was shot four times in the abdomen, thrice by Andy and once by Nick, both of whom saw his muzzle flash and fired at it.

An unseen gangster emerged from behind a container, in front of Andy. Before Andy could react, the mobster squeezed off a shot, the bullet catching Andy in the lower torso. He found himself falling to the ground, emptying his Beretta at the gangster. The gunman jerked under the impact of every 9mm round, taking six shots before falling.

Andy was too high on adrenaline to feel the pain. The fact that the bullet had missed his vital organs merely heightened Andy's illusion that the gunman had missed, and that Andy was merely ducking. Andy got up, wondering why his lower torso felt somewhat stiff, and staggered forward a couple of steps before his torso was aflame.

He ignored the pain, focusing on the task at hand. Soon, the adrenaline coursing through his veins overrode the pain, and the endorphins his brain pumped out temporarily killed the pain. He still had a job to do. He would finish it, no matter what.

Nick reloaded, sliding behind cover. Bullets slammed into the forklift he hid behind, most ricocheting off the curved metal surfaces and whistling dangerously past his ear. Not that he actually heard them; he was too high on adrenaline to care about such things.

He peeked out of cover, seeing a group of gangsters advance towards him. Taking aim, he mowed them all down with an extended burst, inviting a fresh volley of gunfire. He ducked again, a bullet skipping across the surface of the forklift's hood. During a lull, he peered around the corner of the forklift's engine block, seeing a gangster leaning out behind a crate.

Before Nick could reply, a fountain of blood emerged from the side of the criminal's head.

The mobster fell onto his face.

Turning, Nick saw two figures move into his field of view. Both fleetingly passed under a streetlight. One of them was Tony DiMilo, reloading his revolver. The other was Andy DiMilo, clutching his stomach.

_Christ…_

Both men stopped behind that same crate, next to the dead mobster. Nick made up his mind.

Standing up, he perceived a trio of gangsters behind various crates (_really, was there no end to them?_). Taking careful aim, he dispatched all three with single shots, and ducked again as a fresh round of shooting started.

A few moments later, the gunfire ceased, as all the gangsters had run their weapons dry at roughly the same time. Getting up, Nick ran towards Andy and Tony, laying down another barrage of suppression fire, if only to keep the gangster's heads down.

Both men turned around, seeing Nick…or rather, his duster. The HK53's muzzle flash illuminated his flapping black duster overcoat, and that was all they needed to see. They relaxed, holding their fire.

Nick arrived their position soon after, diving next to the two of them, landing on Tony's right. Checking his carbine, he realized that it was empty, and threw it away.

Nick stood up, grabbing Tony by the collar, turning the two of them around, such that Nick's back was now facing the entrance of the docks.

"Tony! Look at him!" Nick snarled, using his left hand to force the police inspector's head towards his wounded brother. "He's your brother! Wake up! Whatever he did wrong, he's just redeemed himself! He saved your life! Why can't you accept him? Why?"

Tony couldn't bring himself to answer Nick.

"You're his brother, damm—"

The curse died on his lips. Tony suddenly registered a warm stream of liquid flowing down his face. Tony wondered why; it was so very strange, until he looked up, and saw a large smoking hole in the middle of Nick's forehead, blood streaming from the wound.

Nick was frozen in that position, eyes locked on Tony's. In that one moment, time seemed to stop forever, perhaps because the last of the good of the bad had died.

Nick staggered forward, already dead, pushing Tony to the floor.

Time resumed. Nick's body danced and jittered, a long fusillade slamming into his body. Blood burst out of wounds that seem to magically appear all over his torso. His limbs quivered and twitched, before reaching out in every direction.

When the shooting stopped, Nick fell backwards, landing on the ground, arms perfectly horizontal, legs perfectly vertical, forming a cross, after a fashion.

Tony forced himself to look away, and a good thing he did. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a—

—Andy saw Tony whip his revolver up, aiming it in his direction—

—Tony vaguely heard the word "NO!" as he aligned the S & W's front sight on his target's chest, squeezing the trigger—

—Andy saw a massive muzzle flash—

A massive .357 Magnum bullet sped down the length of the barrel, traversing the space between cop and criminal within a few moments, flying _above_ Andy, and into the chest of a gangster perched on a stack of crates to the brothers' left, just as he prepared to riddle the two of them with bullets.

Andy stared at his brother, stunned.

"Aaaaarrrgh!" the gangster cried, clutching his chest as he fell off the crates, landing a few feet away from Andy.

Andy looked at his brother, turned around and looked at the dead gunman, looked at Tony again, and understood.

"Tony!" Andy shouted.

"Andy!" Tony replied.

Both men got up, ignoring the dozen of scrapes and cuts that had somehow appeared on their bodies. They reloaded, and prepared for the final round, reading each other's minds.

Keeping low, they ran to their one o'clock, firing at two groups of gangsters behind as many crates to their twelve and eleven o'clock, covering their advance under a hail of gunfire. Four of the gangsters absorbed several bullets, and the rest scattered when they realized that their position was now vulnerable.

But it was too late. Andy and Nick fired on the survivors, the sharp, hard _crack_ of the Beretta contrasting with the Model 18's deep, hollow _BOOM_. Both men didn't care how many shots they fired, so long as they did the job. The criminals attempted to return fire, but many of their rounds went high and wide, and those who did fire were gunned down shortly after pulling the trigger. Those who tried to escape outlived their colleagues by seconds. One by one, the mobsters fell, until a collection of nine bodies, slumped in all positions, were added to the carnage.

An unearthly silence fell on the scene of the battle.

Both men checked their guns.

"I'm empty," Andy declared.

"Me too," Tony muttered.

"Damn."

"Not yet," Tony replied.

"Huh?"

Tony crept around the crate, keeping low. Turning the corner, he saw what he expected to see: a pair of dead mobsters, one with a pistol, one with a revolver. He crawled towards them, keeping as close to the ground as humanly possible, and retrieved the weapons. As an afterthought, he searched them for more ammo, finding a spare magazine for the pistol, before crawling back.

"What have we got?" Andy asked, clutching his wound.

"A Beretta M9, and a…a Casull Fieldgrade," Tony replied, examining the revolver.

"Pass me the Beretta," Andy replied immediately, not knowing what the hell was a Casull Fieldgrade. He received it a moment later.

Andy hefted the gun in his hands, feeling its familiar weight…but it was lighter than normal. He ejected the magazine, and slowly ejected every round, discovering that there were only four bullets in it. Including the one in the chamber, he had five rounds of 9x19mm Parabellum…but that was infinitely better than no gun at all.

Tony examined his big-ass revolver. It was the longest, largest, heaviest gun he had ever seen or used in his lifetime. It was shaped like a Colt Peacemaker revolver, but this huge gun held only five rounds, instead of six. It was chambered for the .454 Casull Magnum, the world's most powerful commercially available cartridge (maybe). He checked the revolver, finding only two long bullets.

More shots rang out, noticeably less than before. The brothers sneaked a peek, seeing two gangsters standing up, covering a lone running figure. Both men took careful aim, aided by the fact that the criminals weren't aiming.

Tony fired a single shot, the muzzle flash temporarily dispersing the night around him. The enormous bullet slammed into his target's chest, atomizing skin and flesh and blood and bone, knocking him to the ground. Andy hammered the other gangster with a pair of shots to the heart, killing him straight away.

Both men vaulted over the crates, pursuing that final gangster. At that moment, the sound of police sirens filled the air, somewhere near the entrance of the dock.

Detective Chia stepped out of his Banshee, a bullhorn in his hands. The entrance to the docks had been cut off by a cordon of police cars, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. A VCPD helicopter, affectionately called 'Green Thunder', had been called up. The SWAT team was en route. All that was left was the call-out.

Turning the device on to its maximum volume, Chia activated the bullhorn, and was rewarded by a sharp burst of white noise. Fiddling about with it, he readjusted its settings, and tried again. Hearing nothing, he announced, "ATTENTION! ATTENTION! THIS IS THE VICE CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT! YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

"Why one minute?" a cop next to him asked.

"That's how long it'll take for the SWAT team to arrive."

"Why announce now?"

"I've nothing better to do," he admitted, chuckling.

"What the hell?" Tony wondered, hearing the announcement.

"Come on!" Andy shouted, seeing the last gangster run towards the entrance of the docks.

The criminal passed under a streetlight. Under its glare, both men saw that he was Mike DeFrantz. They spurred on, following him through a maze of crates and vehicles.

Mike spun around, firing several shots. He had discarded his Skorpion sometime in the battle, switching for a revolver. Both brothers dived for cover, hearing the bullets fly over their heads. Andy recovered first, despite his wound, and followed Mike. Tony followed behind, following his brother because he couldn't see Mike from where he was.

Mike approached a forklift, and slowed down. Andy took noticeand fired a double-tap at Mike from the hip. Both shots missed, slamming into the vehicle instead. Mike turned, using the forklift as cover. Andy fired his last shot, and missed.

"Shit!" he cursed, seeing the Beretta's slide lock back on empty.

Taking advantage of the situation, Mike stood up, revolver in hand. He took aim, placing the front sight blade on Andy's chest, and squeezed the trigger, hearing a—

_CLICK_.

Mike looked down at his revolver, and swore at it. Then, something funny came to mind.

Laughing, he dropped the gun, bearing the smile of a winner.

"Look, Andy! Out of ammo too! But it's a small matter. I'll surrender to the cops. I have money. I can bribe everyone, hire the best lawyers…I'll be out in three days. You, you ain't got shit. You and your brother are in trouble. They'll lock the two of you away, and I can rebuild my empire…and nobody can stop me, Andy!"

Mike broke into fresh peals of laughter as he turned around, back straight, facing the police. Keeping his hands up, he walked toward the cops, still smiling, basking in the glory of victory.

Andy suddenly felt old and weary, his wound starting to burn again. Mike was right, dammit! He couldn't kill him now, not without a gun! SHI—

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

Turning around, Andy beheld Tony. He was holding out his large Casull Fieldgrade revolver by the barrel, its grip facing Andy. After a moment, Andy took the revolver, gripping it firmly, and turned to face Mike, a new surge of energy flowing through him. Tony closed his eyes, and turned around.

Raising the gun, he cocked it, hearing each click as the hammer tensed itself. Pointing the weapon at Mike, he closed his left eye, focusing on the front sight blade. Then, he moved it, planting it on Mike's centre of mass, the centre of his back.

Andy s-q-u-e-e-z-e-d the trigger.

The revolver surged in his hands, a massive bullet roaring out from the muzzle. It flew true, striking Mike in the back, transferring its tremendous energy to the target. Mike gasped as the bullet passed through him, vaporizing everything in its path, blowing out his heart, lungs, a massive quantity of blood, and all manner of substances.

Mike stood still for a moment.

Then, slowly, he fell, hitting the ground face-first, dead.

It was over.

Andy dropped the gun.

Tony turned around.

"He's dead," Andy stated simply.

"Good."

"Arrest me."

"What?" Tony asked, stunned.

"Arrest me. You're a cop, remember? Didn't you say that you were working toward a better tomorrow?"

"I…I…"

Andy reached for Tony's pockets. Before Tony could protest, Andy withdrew a pair of handcuffs. He applied one cuff to his right hand, and the other to Tony's left.

"What the…?"

Andy looked squarely into Tony's eyes.

"Tony…your path is true. Mine isn't, but I didn't have a choice. Now, I'm trying to walk the straight and narrow, but I'm still in trouble. Take me in, Tony."

Finally, Tony understood.

"Come on, bro," he whispered.

Both men turned, facing the police sirens' music, and walked towards the light.

Author's note: Now that this tale is told, dear reader, I'd like to say that I had to take some liberties for this story. I don't think there's a rank called 'Inspector' in any American police force: the equivalent is probably captain or lieutenant. But, in the interests of staying true to the movie, I went and continued calling Tony an 'Inspector'. In addition, I changed some aspects of the story/movie to suit the geography of Vice City, and to ensure that I will not be sued. As always, all quotes belong to John Woo and Golden Harvest. And now…thank you for being a wonderful reader.

Oh, and 'Chia' is a variant of 'Cheah'. If you've watched the movie and the credits, you'd understand why…


End file.
